


When Life Gives You Lemon

by TheLocket



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Cute, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Original Character - Freeform, Starcy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 19:43:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 25,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLocket/pseuds/TheLocket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darcy Lewis has been trapped at SHIELD headquarters ever since Agent Coulson and his gang took possession of Dr. Foster and all her research equipment (including the intern). Without another credit, Darcy is never going to graduate from college. Meanwhile, SHIELD has another lodger they cannot loose on the world: Captain America, who is in desperate need of some history lessons. With some nudges from Director Fury, Darcy is able to take Captain America to school — and learn some things about herself in the process. Set prior to and during The Avengers. (Originally posted to fanfiction.net 12/12-1/13.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Smoothies & Twits

"You are not authorized to use that."

Darcy stared up at Agent Coulson, who was lurking by the kitchen door on Level Two.

"Are you kidding me?" she asked.

He stared straight ahead, as always. It annoyed Darcy, the way that no one in SHIELD seemed to look her in the eye. Further insult: he didn't make any move to respond to her acerbic query.

"Dude, it's a blender," she clarified.

"All equipment here was purchased with SHIELD funds. You are allowed access to the lower-level cabinets only."

For once, he actually looked at her before continuing, "And, between you and me, that's quite generous of the Board."

"Yeah, well, I want a smoothie," Darcy said. "So if I can't make one, can I go hit up Jamba Juice?"

Agent Coulson resumed staring straight ahead.

"Your status has not changed, Miss Lewis."

"Meaning I'm stuck here," Darcy replied, rolling her eyes. "I promise you, Thor Prince-of-Biceps didn't tell me any super-secrets, okay? I just want my ground up fruit."

Agent Coulson gave her a side-ways look, opened his mouth to speak, and then decided against it.

"Yeah, well, I'm going to use this unauthorized blender, watch out," Darcy said sarcastically. "If you feel the need to shoot me, can you wait until after I've eaten it?"

Coulson stared at her evenly. It unnerved her.

"What are you doing in here anyway?" she asked, stalling.

"It's a kitchen, Miss Lewis."

"Yeah, but it's not like you eat." She tossed another handful of strawberries into the blender. Coulson followed her movements, his face devoid of emotion as always.

"Why are we even keeping her around," he muttered, more of an aside than a question.

When Darcy gave him a look he pointed to the com in his ear.

"I heard that," Darcy growled. From Coulson's stance – his head cocked slightly to the left – he must be listening to some speech from Director Fury or the tech guys in the sub-basement. She hit the button on the blender and made sure to make it as loud as possible. Coulson didn't even flinch.

Darcy had the smoothie halfway to her lips when Agent Coulson stood up straighter at his post.

"We're going to have to ask you to leave the premises," he said, striding over and grabbing Darcy's arm.

"Hey!" she exclaimed, trying to stop her drink from sloshing all over the place. "What does SHIELD have against smoothies?"

"The captain would like the room," Agent Coulson said, attempting to steer her out.

"Oh," she said, suddenly serious. "Like Captain America? Is he here? I mean," she continued babbling and Coulson tried to drag her out, "I saw him on the news after he busted out of here and like… unf. I mean, really."

The elevator door in the hallway dinged. Agent Coulson stopped trying to drag the girl across the room and she slumped somewhat awkwardly to one side.

"Try to behave yourself," Coulson said under his breath.

Darcy was wide-eyed as the captain stepped off the elevator. She peered around Coulson's imposing black form to stare.

"Yes sir," she muttered. "Just one more question: Are you sure that this isn't secretly a modeling agency?"

Coulson gave her a warning look – he actually looked legitimately frightening – and Darcy made an effort to keep quiet.

Steve Rogers was dressed in his military khakis. He padded around the kitchen and bent over to reach into a lower cabinet. Darcy choked back another "unf" comment and instead simply raised her eyebrows in disbelief while taking a long gulp of her smoothie.

"How was the briefing, Captain?" Agent Coulson asked, resuming his post by the door.

The captain straightened, turned, and nodded stiffly.

"Satisfactory, Agent Coulson," he replied formally. As he addressed the SHIELD agent, he caught Darcy staring, peering from the corner. She waved a hand at him, the gesture somewhat muted.

"This is Miss Lewis," Agent Coulson said, sounding somewhat irked. "She has worked with others who are part of the Avengers initiative. However, she is a… civilian." He said the last word like it was a contagious disease.

Steve stood up straight, all but clicking his heels together, and nodded formally.

"Ma'am," he said.

Darcy gave him a look and couldn't prevent an awkward laugh from escaping into her half-empty glass.

"Yeah, uhm, at ease Captain," she said, saluting him with the wrong hand.

Steve hesitated, unsure how to respond. The military code hadn't changed much since he had last had a briefing. Darcy, though, in her leggings and sweater, was a completely different animal. After another moment of silence, he turned to get a carton of cereal out of the top cabinet.

"Tricky bastard," Darcy muttered to herself, narrowing his eyes. "So he has access…"

"Did you say something, ma'am?" Steve asked, looking worried.

"Nope," she lied easily. She strode over to better continue the conversation and change the subject: "You like Kellogg's?"

"I grew up on them, ma'am," he replied. "My mother always did say that she carried a torch for a quick and easy breakfast." He broke off to laugh good-naturedly.

Darcy stared at him, clutching her smoothie to her chest with both hands.

"What, ma'am?" he asked, looking concerned.

"That was amazing," she said. "I have to Tweet that."

"Miss Lewis," Agent Coulson interrupted, "I believe you were heading down to Level One A?"

"Uhh…" she stared dazedly at the captain. He stared back, his brow furrowed.

"Lewis?" Coulson repeated sharply. Darcy seemed to come back to herself; she made a noise of impatience somewhere between a sigh and a growl.

"But Coulson," she whined. "He's totally…"

The SHIELD Agent gave her such a glare that even Darcy Lewis gave in.

"Alright, look at me, going down to Level One."

She walked to the elevators.

"The stairs, Miss Lewis," Coulson called after her. "You don't have clearance…"

The elevator dinged behind her and Coulson sighed to himself.

"What's a Twit?" the Captain asked.

"Just some new technology, Captain. You should eat your Frosted Flakes before they get soggy."


	2. Chapter 2

"Motherfucker!"

Darcy screamed wordlessly at her phone and threw it across the room, then resumed screaming expletives.

"Fucking shit! Cocksucking son of a—"

She turned around in the middle of her rampage to find Steve Rogers, standing by the kitchen table. His eyes were wide and he was frozen in the middle of trying to open a milk carton. This did not make Darcy feel better.

"Do I scare you, Captain America?" she growled at him.

"More than Hitler, ma'am" he admitted, still wide-eyed.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Darcy simpered. Still grumbling, she went to retrieve her phone from the floor, and swore more when she saw the state it was in.

The captain hesitated in pouring himself a glass of milk.

"What did that device do to deserve that?"

"My phone?" Darcy asked, holding up the shattered remains of her iPhone. "It didn't do anything. It was the cock-sucking douchebags at my school on the other end of it that upset me."

Steve winced as she swore.

"What, did women not swear where you're from?" she muttered, rolling her eyes. "Or when, or whatever."

"Not any women that I knew, ma'am," Steve replied, taking a sip of milk.

"Well, I promise you, Captain America," Darcy said, brandishing her phone at him, "they did swear. Everyone swears. They just couldn't swear in front of those privileged enough to have dicks."

The captain frowned into his milk but didn't respond.

"I'm sorry," Darcy mumbled. "I'm being a dick. Here you are, defrosted from a frickin' glacier. Everyone you know is dead or fucked over by old age, and I'm complaining about my university."

The captain grew serious.

"I signed up for this, ma'am," he said. "Five times," he admitted. "You, on the other hand…" He trailed off, contemplating how SHIELD had picked up Selvig and his team – only to ship Jane Foster off to some far-away destination.

"Life sucks, doesn't it," Darcy said, suddenly pulling up a chair and sitting down across from Steve, leaning on her hands. Steve stared at her intensity and slowly sat down. He wasn't sure how to deal with Darcy's impulsivity.

"I mean," Darcy continued. "I just needed one more stupid credit to graduate. And my financial aid ran out so, like an idiot, I decided to sign up for an internship. But because this dipshit SHIELD decided to come and take away my mentors, oops, the credit doesn't count anymore."

"And so you can't graduate?" asked Steve, sipping his milk.

"Not unless I sign up for a whole other semester and pay another couple thousand dollars – that I don't have," Darcy growled. She sighed, ran her hands through her hair, and looked up. Despite herself, she snorted.

"What?" asked Steve.

"You've got…" Darcy laughed and pointed to her upper lip. "Milk mustache."

Steve seemed confused. After another giggle, Darcy reached over and batted at his face with her hands.

He stared at her and she blushed, retracting her hands. For a moment she seemed to find everything else in the room extremely important and refused to look at the man sitting before her. He fiddled with the buttons on his plaid shirt. She tried to drink the dregs of her smoothie without success. They both listened to the ceiling fan whirr. It was apparent they had exhausted the conversation. He finished his milk and stood slowly.

"I'm not sure if it's my place, ma'am," he began, "but I find that swearing accomplishes very little."

Darcy thought about this for a moment before replying, "It makes me feel better." She nodded to herself, puffing her lips out like a fish. Then she smiled a bit, embarrassed with her own bad behavior now that her anger was fading.

"Sorry I can't be of more help, ma'am," Steve replied, taking his glass to the sink.

"What would you do?" Darcy asked, following him.

Steve glanced behind him, surprised by his new shadow.

"Punch them in the face?" Darcy suggested.

"No, ma'am," he replied, scrubbing out the glass.

"You realize we have dishwashers now, right?" she asked, leaning across the counter. Steve found himself momentarily distracted by the shape her body made across the counter. Women these days wore such tight-fitting and low-cut clothing… He felt his cheeks grow hot.

"Unless you like scrubbing things," Darcy muttered, lifting her hands in defeat. Steve refocused on the task at hand and cleared his throat in response. Once the glass was clean he slowly made his way to the door.

"Perhaps these men on the other side of this telephone aren't the problem," he offered.

"Hey, this isn't not my fault," Darcy objected.

"Maybe it isn't anyone's fault," Steve clarified. "Maybe you just have to step up and find a creative solution."

"Pshhh." Darcy puffed air out of her mouth. "We can't all be superheroes."

"I may not know many things, ma'am," Steve replied from the doorway, "But I don't ever remember that being a rule."

Darcy stared at him as he left.

"Son of a bitch," she muttered.

***

Steve Rogers was beginning to wonder if all SHIELD agents were trained to act like annoying puppydogs, or if it was just Agent Coulson. He had become accustomed to looking over his shoulder to find Coulson staring at him.

On rare occasions, Coulson even exchanged words with him. He seemed frightened by the task; Steve swore he caught him practicing such a speech in the Level Three lavatory.

One such afternoon, Coulson actually left his post and walked over to where the captain was attempting, once again, to fashion himself a meal.

"I spoke with Director Fury," he intoned quietly to the captain. "I don't know if he's mentioned the new Avengers initiative…"

Steve hesitated, weighing the options. Deciding what to eat was enough of a struggle; he couldn't imagine facing an assignment where more than his sandwich was at risk. At the same time, though, he couldn't imaging letting down such an enthusiastic agent. By the attention he afforded the Captain, Steve was sure that Agent Coulson must love his job.

"With all due respect, Agent Coulson, sir," he began. Darcy strode into the Level Two kitchen, wiping sweat off her face. She was dressed for yoga, wearing spandex pants and bright neon sports bra. The two men fell silent.

"Oh, hey Cap," she said, saluting him again with the wrong hand. "And Agent of Creepiness, how are you doing?"

The captain flushed and turned around.

"What's your problem?" Darcy asked, helping herself to an apple.

"Captain Rogers?" Coulson asked. He sounded worried.

"She isn't dressed, sir," he replied stiffly, still staring straight into the wall a few inches in front of his face.

"I was just working out," Darcy replied. "Did you expect me to wear a dress to the gym? Because I tried that, and downward facing dog plus petticoats equals disaster."

She edged around, trying to catch his eye, but he remained staring away.

"Are you going to ignore me and hold this entire conversation with the wall?" Darcy asked, exasperated. "Well, this is a total blow to my self-esteem," she muttered, puffing out her chest. For a moment she stared down at her substantial cleavage.

"I mean," she muttered. "Usually men tend to like… but… I mean… I guess…"

The captain cleared his throat and held out his military olive jacket. Darcy looked at it.

"Really?" she asked. "I mean…" She sighed, and continued, "This is only because you ended World War II, you hear me Captain Man?" She put on the jacket, disappearing into the large shoulders and holding the neck closed so it covered her chest.

"Better?" she muttered.

"Thank you, ma'am," he replied quietly. His face was still red as he turned back to the group.

"Nazis he can handle," Darcy muttered. "But a sports bra and yoga pants? Call in for reinforcements!"

"Miss Lewis," Agent Coulson interjected, his tone a warning.

"Yeah?"

"The captain and I were discussing an assignment."

Darcy took a bite of the apple.

"Well, go on then," she said through a mouthful of fruit. "Don't mind me. I'm just using this kitchen as a kitchen."

Agent Coulson cleared his throat again.

"Miss Lewis," he continued. "Your security clearance…"

"I see how it is, Agent Dickface," Darcy replied, tossing the half-eaten apple aside. "It's not like you are the only people in the entire world I'm allowed to speak with." Her sarcasm was so heavy that even Coulson almost cracked a smile.

"I'll go shower now," Darcy announced, throwing off the jacket. "Here's your coat, Cap."

He blushed again, staring at the ceiling.

"Okay, buddy, if that's how it's going to be," she replied. "Oh, and Agent whatever," she called as she walked, "any chance you'll let me out of this Fortress of Solitude anytime soon?"

"We will inform you of your status when the Board informs us, Miss Lewis," Coulson replied.

"Lovely," Darcy replied snidely, striding down the hallway. They heard her call, "Great to know that this is where my tax money is going!"


	3. To Protect and Serve

"Miss Lewis."

Darcy looked up from her notebook to see Agent Coulson flanked by three other SHIELD operatives all dressed in black.

"If this is about the blender…"

"Come with us," one of the other agents said. She wasn't sure which one – they all looked the same and their mouths didn't seem to move – but, regardless, she stood up slowly to obey.

"Coulson, you know I was joking about the captain, right?" she said. "I mean, not about how much I'd like to–"

"Miss Lewis," he interrupted tiredly. She continued speaking despite his interjection.

"— him. Repeatedly… But, I would never do anything to freak him out all this future stuff and whatever."

They continued walking down the hallways as Darcy babbled.

"I mean," she continued, "I've been in locked-down-secrecy mode. Nothing about the Mayans or the Middle East or Steve Jobs. I, mean, I didn't even spoil the ending of Pretty Little Liars, and Jane still hates me for that."

She paused for a second, before admitting, "And Erik too. He might be angrier about learning who 'A' was."

They had made it to a conference room on Level Six – high above Darcy's normal security clearance – and an agent wordlessly directed Darcy into a chair. She stared out the panoramic glass window at New York City and the ant-like people crawling around forty-six stories below.

"Nothing about MJ or Taylor Swift," she continued, trying to make eye contact with the agents to prove her innocence. "My best behavior. I mean, I can't help if I'm always humming 'Love Story' but it really has a way of just getting stuck in my head, like getting in there and—"

"Darcy," Agent Coulson said.

"And you were Romeo I was scarlet letter and my daddy said stay away from Juliet," Darcy was singing quietly, rocking back and forth. She seemed unaware that she was even singing.

"Darcy!"

"Yeah?" she asked, snapping out of it. She stared around the conference table once again. "Is… is this the part where you kill me? Because I'm pretty sure this is the part where you kill me."

"We've got a better use for you, Miss Lewis," Agent Coulson replied, smiling stiffly despite himself.

"Sign of the apocalypse, Agent Creepyface smiling," she said, crossing herself like she was trying to ward off evil. It was easy to tell she wasn't religious; she crossed herself in the wrong direction.

"Please try to cooperate, Miss Lewis," Agent Coulson replied, sobering somewhat. "We just have some questions for you."

"Okay." Darcy was wide-eyed.

"What's your major at Brown University?" he asked.

"Poli-sci. Political science," she replied quickly. "Or, you know, 'American and Comparative Politics.'"

"And why were you interning with Dr. Foster?"

"One last credit. It was supposed to be history but they made an exception. For the 'science' part of my major. Not that it's really science, but, I mean—"

"And have you received credit?"

"No." Darcy paused in her speed-talking. "Hold on, have you been monitoring my calls?"

The agents stared at her evenly. Apparently they all learned Coulson's eye-narrowing technique at Agent School.

"That is a direct violation of my Fourth Amendment rights!" Darcy squawked. All the agents continued to stare at her evenly. She quickly remembered her present company and precarious situation.

"Not to mention extremely creepy," she continued, more subdued. After a moment, she asked, "Does that mean you heard that conversation with Jane…"

"Yes," one of the agents said evenly. Darcy winced.

"We're all glad to hear that you would like to serve your country," another agent intoned.

"I believe I said service," Darcy muttered, blushing.

"Regardless, we have an assignment for you, Miss Lewis," Agent Coulson replied. "Agent Limmond is accompanying Captain Rogers on a training expedition, and we spoke with your university. You may join Agent Limmond and the captain in order to complete your degree."

"Which one is the Lemon?" Darcy asked, turning to the crowd. One of the black-clad men nodded. Darcy assumed that was Limmond, but the gesture was so small she couldn't be sure.

"The Board believes it could be beneficial for the captain to be exposed to civilian life in a controlled and limited context. This will also mitigate the personal loss you have incurred as a direct result of SHIELD's actions."

"Yeah, you'd better mitigate that loss," Darcy muttered, still glancing about the room nervously.

Suddenly, all the agents stood up as though on a cue and began filing out.  
"So… that's it?" Darcy asked.

"Yes, Miss Lewis," Coulson replied.

"When do we start? Where are we going?"

"We will contact you, Miss Lewis," he said. "We know where to find you."

***

At precisely oh-five-hundred hours, there was a knock on Darcy's door.

"Wassat?" she mumbled, throwing open the door. Through the tangled mess of her hair she could make out a figure dressed all in black with wrap-around shades. "Halloween isn't for another six-months," she muttered. "And I don't have any candy. Trick or treat."

She closed the door and fell back into bed, but the knocking returned.

"What?" she asked. This time she opened the door she was slightly more awake.

"I'm Agent Limmond and I'm here to escort you to the briefing."

"Oh," Darcy said, slowly regaining consciousness. "Lemon."

"Limmond," he repeated.

"Yeah," Darcy admitted, "I'm going to call you Lemon."

The man stared straight ahead, his gaze missing her eyes and landing somewhere on the wall behind her. She turned to see if he was looking at something, but then remembered he was SHIELD and that was what they did.

"Are we – do we have to go now?"

"Briefing is at oh-five-thirty," he replied, more like a computer than a person. From his buzz cut down to his ludicrously shiny shoes, he looked like he meant business.

"So I have thirty minutes?"

"You might want to get dressed."

"I'm fine." Darcy waved away his comment.

"You aren't wearing pants."

Darcy looked down at her rainbow-striped underwear.

"Excellent point, Lemon. Give me five."


	4. Tally-ho

Twenty minutes later, Darcy stumbled out of her bedroom door. Her hair was at least out of her face; she was dressed haphazardly in jeans and what appeared to be a poncho.

"No wise-ass comments about my outfit, Lemon," she warned. She moved her hands over her outfit as though showing it off. "This is New Mexico chic."

Agent Limmond said nothing and they made their way to the Level Five conference room in silence.

"Speaking of outfits," Darcy murmured, catching a glimpse of Captain Rogers through the conference room door. He was dressed in an undershirt and another pair of ridiculously high-waisted pants, but he managed to make the grandpa-clothes look sexy.

"Unf?" asked Agent Limmond.

Darcy punched him in the shoulder, probably doing more damage to her hand than his arm.

"Manners, Lemon," she said, sliding into the seat next to Steve.

"Good morning, ma'am," he said.

"Tally-ho, sergeant," Darcy replied, saluting him again. The captain's polite smile faded somewhat; he squinted at her as though trying to see the reasoning behind her weirdness.

"That was British," Agent Limmond muttered.

"I realize that now," Darcy replied out of the corner of her mouth. She smiled awkwardly at him, as though eating her lips.

"Would you like some breakfast, ma'am?" Steve asked, still looking confused. He gestured to the spread.

"Smoothies," Darcy noted, sounding impressed. "Y'know, spies do tend to notice the little things, don't they. That and stare off into the middle distance. And… well, you guys tend to appear out of nowhere like ninjas."

"It's our job," Agent Coulson said, appearing out of nowhere.

Darcy sloshed her smoothie down the front of poncho.

"Jeez!" she whimpered. Then she looked around: Steve and Limmond returned her gaze mildly. "Really? Just me. Okay. I see how it is. Guess my grandma won't be getting her poncho back."

Limmond raised an eyebrow.

"And by grandma I mean best friend who is interning at Prada," Darcy clarified. "Obviously. I mean, duh."

"She isn't serious," Coulson explained to a very confused Steve. "She's embarrassed that she's wearing that…"

Couslon trailed off, pointing to her mustard-orange sweater-poncho. The conference room was suddenly thick with a very awkward silence.

"I think it's very nice, ma'am," Steve said, filling the silence.

"Thanks," Darcy replied sullenly. "Alright, gents, commence the debriefing."

"Miss Lewis?"

Darcy was asleep, face-first, on the conference room table. She felt a gentle nudge on her shoulder.

"Miss Lewis?" came a voice. The captain nudged her again.

"The meeting is over, ma'am," he said gently.

Darcy sat up, looking unbalanced. She saw the captain – the rest of the room was empty – and sleepily rubbed the corner of her mouth.

"That was so boring," Darcy grumbled.

Steve's eyes crinkled but he kept his composure.

"Alright, ma'am," he replied.

"Hold up, Vice Admiral," Darcy said, standing stiffly. "I need you."

"Ma'am?"

"Your clearance, dude," she replied. "Because SHIELD is seriously disturbed if they think I am taking all those stairs."

Steve look concerned, but nodded. Now tasked with the mission of getting Darcy an elevator, he stood up taller, snapped his heels together, and stiffened his shoulders. When Darcy still lolled around in her chair, though, Steve looked concerned.

"Would you like to head over now, ma'am?"

"Negative, Lieutenant Commander," Darcy said, saluting. "Operation Breakfast commencing."

Steve opened his mouth to speak, but then closed his mouth.

"What?" Darcy asked through a mouthful of muffin.

"I'm a captain, ma'am," he clarified, looking uncomfortable.

"I know," Darcy replied, taking another bite of the muffin. She made a face and then put on a deep voice: "Captain America."

"Well, you've been calling me everything but 'Captain,' ma'am," he clarified, sounding more unsure with each word.

"And you've been calling me 'ma'am,' Captain," she replied, raising an eyebrow.

The captain stared at Darcy, his lips parted. She chugged a glass of milk and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.

"I was just trying to be respectful, ma—" He cut himself off halfway through. He scowled for a moment, looking completely defeated.

"Don't worry about it, big guy," Darcy said, clapping him on the shoulder. "I've been called much worse things, trust me…"

"I didn't mean to offend you," he continued, pursuing her around the buffet, hands clasping wrists.

"It's fine, Cap," she said, helping herself to a platter of tater-tots. "Really, SHIELD?" she muttered. "I mean, is this place is catered by my high school cafeteria?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Lewis," he continued.

"Yeah, uhm, apology accepted, really."

The captain still looked at her, his eyebrows peaked.

She made her sigh-growl noise again.

"You look like a sad puppy-dog. Really, dude, it's fine."

"Alright," he conceded, although he didn't sound alright. He blinked, as though trying to arrange his face into a more neutral expression.

"You've been in the army too long, Cap," she said. "In the real world, we don't use titles."

"Actually," he admitted, blushing somewhat as fixed his gaze on the counter, "I just haven't been around many dames…." He cut off and almost immediately corrected himself: "Women. I haven't been around many young women."

Darcy looked up at him.

"Really?"

"Yes, m—… yes."

Darcy made a noise of protest and gestured to his body. The captain looked down in surprise.

"What?"

"You realize you are, like, genetically engineered to be sexy, right?"

The captain reddened.

"Not to be sexy, ma'am. To be a weapon."

"Yeah, a weapon of mass seduction!" Darcy squawked. "Do you really expect me to believe that no other woman has fallen victim to your charms? – And by charms I mean pectorals."

The captain squinted, thinking. His left hand went to flatten the back of his hair and he reddened again, thinking of a very forward blond that had cornered him an office not unlike this one.

"I rest my case," Darcy simpered. "Now, Captain of Hotness, fetch me my elevator."

"Aye-aye, Staff Sergeant," the captain replied half-heartedly, saluting her weakly.

"Oh, look at you, trying to make a joke," Darcy cooed enthusiastically. "Y'know, if it was after sunrise I may have actually laughed."

"I try, ma'am."

"Tally-ho," Darcy muttered. The elevator dinged.


	5. Fury

A letter being shoved under her bedroom door awoke Darcy from her mid-morning nap. She rose groggily and opened the manila envelope to find a file. Apparently the agents had noticed her falling asleep mid-briefing and prepared a set of notes for her. Apparently Coulson also had noticed that she was drooling on the table; inside was a sticky-note commenting that hardwood surfaces tend to degrade when exposed to moisture.

"I'm sure the Board of Directors can handle it," Darcy said aloud, trying to glare into the security camera posted in the corner of her room. She wasn't sure if Agents Coulson or Limmond could hear, but it made her feel better nonetheless. Still she felt stale, gross even, from a disrupted sleep schedule. SHIELD helping her graduate and providing its own hunky man had been a bonus, but not when she only interacted with him when her hair was a rat's nest and she had spit caked onto her face.

She then took a nice long bath, taking care to shave so she could feel sexy underneath her assortment of her grandmother's parkas. It was an act of defiance, like her candy-colored undies, that no one (except perhaps Limmond) would notice. The second half of her bath was spent worrying that SHIELD had installed security cameras in her bathroom as well and now were judging her for her hair-removal habits. It was bad enough that they were housing her in what was little more than a spy-style office building — she was sure the room had been hastily converted solely for her benefit — but the security cameras definitely added a level of discomfort to the catalogue-blank taupe walls and hospital-style furniture. But by the time her fingers were pruning and her bathwater was tepid at best, Darcy decided to hell with SHIELD; they were spies and probably spent their time staring at more interesting things than her embarrassing tan lines.

Unfortunately, half a smoothie, a glass of milk, and a few bites of a muffin wasn't enough to keep Darcy full, and prune-y fingers counteracted the self-confidence boost of smooth legs. Her hair was still damp as she made her way to the Level Two kitchen. She was surprised to see a familiar pair of olive military-clad shoulders at the main table. He didn't look up when she entered the room, so she made herself some scrambled eggs in silence. The sizzle on the stovetop was unmistakable, but still Steve didn't turn.

"Well," Darcy said, deadpan, "I'd prefer being called 'ma'am' to this."

The captain turned to give her a morose smile, his gaze missing hers and drifting along the floor.

"Why do you use the Level Two kitchen anyway?" she asked. "I mean, don't you have like… the same security clearance as the President?"

Steve's eyebrows puckered.

"No," he replied. "I was declared inactive, so I have to be recertified."

"And you don't know if you want to be?" Darcy guessed, sipping on an apple juice box from the fridge. It made a comic noise, but even that didn't diffuse the tension.

"I'm not sure if I'd pass," he replied honestly, sounding frustrated.

"C'mon," Darcy wheedled. "Aren't you like a superhero? I mean, when the going gets tough the tough get going? Hoorah?"

Steve smiled sadly at her.

"Semper fi?" she tried again, clearly running out of inspirational comments. "Fus ro dah?"

"Hoorah works just fine, ma'am," he replied, still sounding glum, the politeness sounding forced. "Semper fi is for the marine corps… and I'm not sure about the last one."

"Yeah that one's probably not real," Darcy allowed. "I'm pretty sure it lets you breath fire or talk to dragons or something."

She gave up and began pushing her lunch around on its plate. So much for sexy legs; he wouldn't even look at her.

"After the briefing Director Fury offered me a mission," the captain admitted, his eyes glued on the table.

"What about Operation Darcy's History Credit?" she asked. She hadn't meant to sound personally affronted, but the idea that the nation could be more important than the vacation SHIELD had been preparing her for was upsetting at the very least.

Steve shrugged and made no move to respond.

"Okay," Darcy replied. "I… uhm… I guess I'll just… I can… go…"

She stood up, lingering along the edge of the table. Her fingers traced damp marks on the surface, still pruned from her bath. Steve remained hunched in the kitchen chair, staring at the ground.

Darcy took her time, shuffling towards the doorway.

"Wait, Darcy?" he asked, turning and sitting up. He finally looked her in the face. She stopped, frozen at the sound of her name.

"Yeah?" she asked, stupidly breathless.

"I would like very much to take that jet down to the capital with you tomorrow morning," he said. "If it's alright with you."

"Yeah it's alright with me," Darcy replied, wide-eyed. Steve seemed to decide something; his face remained stoic but the scowl was gone.

"So I suppose… Operation History Credit has a green light?" he tried.

For the first time, Darcy awarded him a full-grin, the corners of her eyes crinkling.

"This isn't just so you can follow me around calling me 'ma'am,' right?" she asked, faking worry.

Steve looked at the ground, then back up at her.

"I've been serving this country for more than seventy years, ma'am," he said, a corner of his mouth turning up. "I think it's about time I took an unscheduled leave."

"I have no idea what you're talking about but yes please," she replied.

***

"Why did you offer Captain Rogers the Uruguay mission?"

"Because I knew he'd say no, Agent Coulson," Nick Fury replied. He remained staring impassively out the penthouse window, watching the horizon line. He always stood like he was at the helm of the Helicarrier, even when he was firmly on land.

Agent Coulson looked confused but didn't speak. He linked his hands before him and stood patiently. He knew the Director, if given the opportunity, would either explain himself or he would choose to keep it as one of his many secrets. And in the case of Phil Coulson, it was generally the former. Nick Fury trusted him.

"The captain needs to get out into the world," Fury explained. "He can't fight for a country he doesn't even know anymore."

"Why couldn't he go along with the original plan? Accompanying Miss Lewis for an education without the pressure of another mission?"

"Guilt, Agent Coulson," Fury replied. "Steve Rogers wants to dedicate his life to this country. The only way that we could get him to focus on himself was to show him that he couldn't do anything else."

"Director?"

"Rogers isn't ready for a mission. Right now, he needs to figure out his own brain. He is the mission. He wasn't going to be selfish enough to choose that, so I offered him a choice by showing him there was no choice."

Coulson thought about it. He was a good SHIELD agent, so lying wasn't foreign to him, but manipulating Captain America made him feel a bit uneasy.

"He isn't going to like feeling powerless," he remarked.

"Sometimes you have to break a man before you can build him up," Fury remarked. "Now get me Selvig on the phone. I heard from Barton that he might be making some progress."


	6. Cherry Blossoms

Darcy felt a gentle nudge to her shoulder.

"We've landed," she heard the captain saying. "Ma'am? I mean… Miss… Darcy?"

"Just call me Fitzwilliam," she replied groggily, sarcastic even in her sleep. For a moment she looked around. "What time is it?"

"Local time is oh-four-thirty," Agent Limmond replied. He was seated across from Darcy and the captain. She was still slouched over, having fallen onto Steve's shoulder as soon as they reached ten thousand feet.

"And Darcy time?" she asked.

"Oh-four-thirty," Limmond repeated evenly. "Same time zone."

"Obviously," she muttered. "It would be before dawn. Because you people don't sleep."

Steve made a face – he seemed to be equally uncomfortable and amused – but didn't respond.

"Have you ever been to the capital?" he asked instead, offering a hand to help Darcy up. She stood, straightening her outfit (today she seemed to be re-using an old Catholic school girl uniform that resembled a kilt) – ignoring the proffered hand.

"What, DC?" she asked. "No. Well, maybe once when I was really little."

They slowly disembarked the plane – the captain again offering to help Darcy down the stairs, which she didn't notice as well. It was still dark. A black four-door pulled up. Limmond took the front seat, while the captain held the door open for Darcy. She went around the back and climbed into the other side.

For a while they drove in silence, Darcy staring out the window.

"What's our first appointment, Agent Limmond?" Steve asked, breaking the silence.

"Status report and check-in," Limmond reported. "You have until sixteen-hundred."

"We could always check out the mall," the captain offered, turning towards Darcy.

"Is this another dig about my outfit?" she asked, turning to shoot him a look.

"No ma'am," he replied quickly. "The National Mall. Monuments?"

"Negative, Captain," Limmond interrupted from the front seat. "The Board's orders were clear: you're to be educated chronologically."

"Sir?" the captain asked.

"There are quite a few new monuments, I'm afraid," Limmond replied. Darcy wasn't sure if there was regret in his agent-tone, but she assumed there was. The captain looked downcast for a moment. The streets were empty, but they paused at a red light. The car was silent but for the steady clicking noise of the turn signal.

"Are the reflecting pools still there?" he asked.

"Yes, Captain."

"Well, may Darcy and I go for a run then?"

"Wha—no I don't run," Darcy interrupted, sounding horrified.

"Excellent plan," Limmond replied, ignoring Darcy's protest. "We will meet in the lobby at oh-five-fifteen."

Limmond was already out of the car, striding through the sliding glass doors of the hotel. Darcy followed, whistling appreciatively at the poshness of their lodgings.

"Welcome to our nation's capital," one of the staff members greeted them, offering them each a mug of steaming coffee.

"And this is why I love America," Darcy enthused.

"I'm flattered. You know the feeling's mutual," Steve muttered jokingly, but Darcy was too enthralled in her free beverage to hear.

***

They met in the hallway as scheduled and Darcy was only ten minutes late.

"What?" she asked. The captain was staring.

"You're wearing different exercise clothing than before," he said, his brow puckering again. Darcy looked down. She had thrown a t-shirt over her sports bra and switched out her yoga pants for a pair of running shorts.

"Is that a problem?" she asked. "I mean, what else can I run in?"

The captain was wearing a SHIELD uniform tracksuit. He fiddled with the zipper.

"Aren't you going to be cold?" he asked Darcy. She snorted.

"C'mon, Cap."

"What?" he asked, following her out the doors. Limmond, in his black tracksuit, sunglasses, and suspicious earbud, followed them. Another agent – possibly the driver from that morning – joined him.

"That's just such a guy thing to say," Darcy explained as they started jogging lightly. "I mean—" she broke off and continued in a theatrically low voice "—'hey babe aren't you cold? Wanna take my jacket?'"

She cut herself off to make a noise again to show her derision.

"I wasn't aware that was a… thing," the captain replied, once again confused.

"It's not your fault," Darcy continued. "Maybe it was actually a novel idea back when you were picking up chicks. Now it's just…. Trite. Clichéd. Sexist." Each word punctuated her step as they jogged in unison.

The captain scowled, blinking in confusion, but didn't respond.

"Is there something I should say instead?" he asked.

They paused at a street corner waiting for the light to change. Darcy stared at the orange hand on the crosswalk sign, stretching her arms over and to the right.

"I dunno, are you trying to pick me up?" she asked archly.

The captain looked at her.

"I… uhm," he stuttered.

At his response, Darcy turned in surprise. She opened her mouth to speak.

"Ahem."

The two turned; one of the agents had cleared his throat.

"You have the right of way," Limmond explained, gesturing to the illuminated sign.

"Yes sir," the captain replied, resuming his jog.

They picked up the pace so it was too fast to speak and soon were running along the main road.

"Cherry blossoms," Steve pointed out. "Our timing couldn't be better."

"Speak for yourself," Darcy wheezed out. "I'm not made for long distance running."

They both slowed to a walk; Darcy put her hands over her head and gasped at air.

"Sorry," Steve muttered. "I forgot…"

"That you're a superhero now?" Darcy asked between gulps of air. "Or that I am not an Olympic athlete?"

Steve laughed awkwardly.

"Do you… uhm… like the cherry blossoms?" he tried again.

"They're very pink," Darcy commented.

"And… you don't like pink?" he guessed.

Darcy shrugged, her hands still over her head.

"Pink is fine."

"Alright."

They kept walking.

"I like them too," the captain murmured conspiratorially, leaning in towards her in over-dramatized camaraderie. Darcy rolled her eyes.

"Just because you saved the world don't think you can speak for me, Captain-America-man," she warned.

"I'm just filling in the gaps, ma'am," he said.

Her eyes narrowed at his 'ma'am'-ing her, but something in the way his eyes crinkled made her think he had done it on purpose this time.

"Want to get a closer look?" he offered.

"Oh, do I…" Darcy muttered.

"I think he meant to the cherry blossoms," Limmond informed her.

"Yes, thank you Lemon, very helpful," she grimaced. They found their way down to the edge of the pool where the fronds of flowers trailed in the water.

"If only I had my sketchpad," the captain mused.

"Want to draw me like one of your French girls?" Darcy offered, posing dramatically.

"I have French girls?" he asked.

"Never mind," Darcy rolled her eyes. "Just remind me to scale back my pop culture references."

"Alright," Steve said.

The walked through the cherry blossoms, pausing to admire the views. Darcy's hair got stuck in an errant branch. She tried to hide it and the captain pretended not to notice as she attempted to extricate herself from the rogue tree.

They were walking in silence, enjoying the view, when Darcy crossed her arms. Steve laughed.

"What?" she asked. He put a hand over his mouth to muffle his outburst. She gave him a quizzical look.

"You're cold, aren't you," he pointed out. Her eyebrows snapped together.

"And you're a smug bastard."

He tried to press his lips together to hide his smile.

"Gimme your coat, Rogers," she growled, holding out her hand. He smiled kindly, unzipped his jacket, and handed it over.

"You're welcome, ma'am," he replied, smirking somewhat.

"Oh, put a cork in it," she muttered.

"Now that one I understood," he piped up.

"Whoop-de-frickin'-do," she muttered. She pushed the sleeves up, hiding her smile behind the folds of fabric.


	7. Here's Looking at You, Kid

After their makeshift dinner – one that was interrupted by a very boring status report – the captain disappeared and Darcy locked herself in her room. SHIELD, as she learned during the briefing, had rented out the entire sixteenth floor of the hotel. It was a nice touch that she got her own room – after a few months of living at SHIELD headquarters, Darcy felt starved for privacy. At least here she could pretend she wasn't being watched constantly.

As she dawdled through unpacking and painted her nails, though, she could hear male voices in the hallway. They sounded like they were right outside her door. They probably were. Just to spite them, Darcy took a nap, knowing full well this was exactly what she shouldn't do to set her internal clock back to normal after two crazy-early mornings.

It was about two in the morning when she surfaced out of her mistimed hibernation and made her way groggily downstairs to the mezzanine. From there, she could see the lights of the lobby. International visitors were filing in, dragging rolling suitcases and talking mutedly on cell phones.

Muddling about in search of the magic free coffee, Darcy walked headlong into Captain America.

"Excuse me," he said mildly, reaching out to steady her. His hands lingered on her upper arms.

"Yeah, don't mention it, Captain Clumsy," she muttered, removing her hair from her face, fighting a sudden impulse to giggle and blush.

"Were you headed downstairs?" he asked.

"Coffee is always a good thing to mix with insomnia," she replied with an awkward laugh.

He looked uncomfortable.

"What?"

"They took the coffee away a few hours ago," he admitted.

"Lovely."

He remained staring at her, cautious.

"What?" she asked again.

"Are you going to start cursing and throwing things again?" he asked. "Because," he continued, lowering his voice to a whisper, "we're in a public place and there may be children around."

Darcy laughed.

"Don't worry, Cap," she said, throwing herself into one of the armchairs set in the mezzanine. "Contrary to popular opinion, I can behave myself when it's entirely necessary."

From there, she could see the escalators linking to the lobby below. A family of three came up, the son clutching a teddy bear and leaning exhaustedly on his mother.

The captain smiled in relief and sat down across from her.

"So… insomnia?" he asked.

"Oh, my sleep schedule's off. What's your excuse?"

"I slept for seventy years," he said, too easily.

"So you don't sleep." She didn't say it like a question, but turned to stare at him with dark, intense eyes. Curiosity may be the reason she was held hostage by SHIELD, but it wasn't a character trait Darcy could suppress.

"No, I sleep," he said. "I just…" He considered his words, moving his head back and forth as he weighed them internally. "I just don't want to miss another lifetime. Part of me..." — he broke off to chuckle — "... is a little worried that the next time I open my eyes it might be to flying cars and aliens."

Although he had tried to keep his tone light like hers, his comment still brought the conversation to a standstill.

"Jeez," Darcy said, sucking in air through her teeth.

"But you should sleep," he replied gently. "Tomorrow is another early morning. You have to tell me all about that lifetime I missed."

"I always do all the talking," she griped.

"You are the one who's clever with the words."

Darcy blushed, thinking of how she had twisted words to comment on him.

"I'd like to hear about your other—I mean, you," she admitted quietly. Immediately it was clear that it was the wrong thing to say. Curiosity killed the conversation once more.

"Maybe another evening," he replied, a stupid nicety. It was clear to both of them that he was lying. His hands linked in front of his belt and he nodded formally.

Darcy had her knees pulled in and tucked under her chin.

"Okay," she said meekly.

The captain stood to leave, his calmness jarred by her inquiry, by the fact that this strange person — a woman and a civilian, making her foreign on two accounts — was peering up at him with puppy-dog eyes.

"Do… do you miss them?" she asked.

"Of course," he replied, sounding shocked by her question. Darcy picked at her nails.

"I'm sorry," she said. "About everything you missed."

"So am I," he admitted quietly. He had hoped she wouldn't hear, but from her face she could. She looked so broken and small. He reached out and awkwardly patted her on the shoulder, adding, "Get some sleep, kid."

She winced, curling herself even smaller into a ball, and he instantly realized that the term of endearment had been the wrong one to use. Talking to her, not understanding her strange references, fumbling through this terrifying new world: he just felt so old.

For once, Darcy didn't have a clever comeback. She didn't have a quip or a sassy retort. He sighed and left to go to his room where he could stare at the ceiling and try not to fall asleep. Darcy remained in the lobby, curled up in a ball. She watched the tourists come and go. Elevators dinged and suitcases wheeled. A small child cried out.

"Miss Lewis."

She started in her chair, a neck cramp forcing her to twitch sideways.

"Lemon?"

"Do you need help finding your room?" he asked.

"Nah…" she said, rubbing her eyes. "I'll be fine."

"I don't doubt that," Limmond replied. "You know, when life gives you Lemon…"

Darcy laughed shortly.

"See you tomorrow, Agent Limmond," she said, slinking towards the elevator.

"Really Lemon?" Darcy asked, closing her hotel room door behind her. "There's nothing you want to say?"

"Nope."

"Just say it."

"No."

"Goddammit, Lemon, spit it out."

There was a slight pause.

"I rather like your boots," the SHIELD agent said mildly.

Darcy glanced down at her neon-green boots.

"Thanks, Lemon. But I'm afraid they don't come in your size."

Limmond squared his shoulders and stood, staring off into the distance for a moment.

"That all?" she asked bluntly. He made a face behind his aviators.

"Are you expecting rain?" he inquired gently.

"Not at all," she said nonchalantly, her rainboots squeaking as she strode away defiantly. Her forest green tunic waved behind her like a cape. Limmond laughed quietly to himself and straightened his perfect black silk tie.

***

Captain America nodded formally to Limmond as he entered the breakfast buffet area, swinging his jacket over his arm. He wore another gingham button-up shirt and khaki pants that were all but belted under his armpits. After quick assessing the food, he grabbed an orange and peered around the empty seats. Darcy was seated in a middle table by herself, so he sat down across from her.

"Of all the tables, in all the hotel, in all of DC, you sat down at mine," Darcy griped.

He stared at her, wide-eyed, halfway into unpeeling the orange.

"I think I actually got that reference," he trumpeted, looking surprised with his own happiness.

"This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship," Lemon muttered, adjusting his earpiece.

"Here's looking at you, kid," Darcy said, toasting the captain with her glass of chocolate milk.

Steve's face split in a smile – a full smile that made his eyes crinkle. Darcy returned the grin but her words tasted sour to her. Were they even now that they had both called each other belittling names?

"You've seen Casablanca?" the captain asked.

"I did some research," Darcy admitted, shaking her iPhone in the air.

"Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman," Limmond nodded from his post. "A classic."

"You know your films, Lemon!" Darcy enthused.

"I know everything, Miss Lewis," Limmond replied, straight-faced.

Darcy snorted into her breakfast; Steve seemed like he was trying to catch up. He divided his orange into slices and ate them slowly.

"What's the plan today, skipper?" Darcy asked.

"Holocaust Museum," Limmond replied.

Darcy choked a little on her blueberry muffin.

"Really?" she whimpered, all traces of her normal cheer gone.

"Really," Limmond confirmed.

"What's a Holocaust?" Steve inquired timidly.

"We're heading to the museum today, Captain," Limmond replied.

"And… a Holocaust is a bad thing?" Steve asked, looking from Darcy's sobered expression to the agent's impassive face. Darcy was now picking at her nails again, her rainboots squeaking as she shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

"Yes, Captain. Definitively bad."

Darcy slurped her chocolate milk with a straw.

"All set?" Limmond asked.

Steve and Darcy looked up.

"The car is waiting outside," he continued.

"How did you…?" Steve began.

Limmond tapped his earpiece.

Darcy took in a deep breath and sighed.

"Alright, let's go," she said finally. Her rainboots made an undignified noise as she stood, but no one said anything.


	8. So Sweet

"We have the entire Holocaust Museum," Limmond said, holding open the door for Steve and Darcy.

"The museum, sir?" he asked.

"We've claimed the space," he replied.

"Uh," Darcy interjected. "What's the cover story you spooks are using today?"

"Maintenance," Limmond said, straight-faced as always.

"Maintenance," Darcy repeated. She turned towards Limmond, accusatory: "I am never believing the government. Ever again. Ever."

An elevator dinged; the doors slid open.

"You'll want level three," Limmond said.

"You aren't coming with us, sir?" Steve stuttered.

"I'll give you a few hours," he replied.

Steve looked up at him, his brows puckering in concern.

"Third floor," Limmond repeated.

***

"You should be proud," Limmond said. Steve turned. He had been standing in the same spot on the third floor for two and a half hours. He looked nauseated, his full lips turned in a frown.

"Sir?" he asked, his voice bitter.

"This is what you fought for."

"This…" Steve gestured to the museum piece before him. It was the metal frame of a bed, twisted and burned almost beyond recognition. It was small: a child's bed.

"We didn't know…" the captain continued.

"No one did, Captain," Limmond replied.

Steve nodded. He drew a breath and slowly moved on to the next exhibit. After a moment he seemed to decide against it – he had seen enough for one day. Belatedly, he realized it was quiet, and therefore someone was missing.

"Miss Lewis?" he called. Darcy appeared from behind a corner. Her eyes were red around the edges and she was barefoot. In her hands she held both her rainboots.

"Are you alright, ma'am?" Steve asked gently.

"Uh-hu." Darcy sounded dazed. She seemed to remember herself and wiped at her eyes impatiently.

"This museum can be very… powerful," Limmond said blandly. "How do you feel?" Darcy shook herself all over as though dispelling her sadness

"Like ice cream," she replied, as though she had suddenly decided this. With a welcome interruption, she was resuming her normal self quickly.

"Ma'am?" the captain asked.

"I feel like ice cream," Darcy repeated. She flopped onto the ground and began contorting herself in an effort to slide on her boots. Apparently her sudden need for dessert was all-consuming.

"Son of a…" she muttered, struggling with the rubber. "Hey, America-man, get over here."

The captain took the four steps necessary to stand right above her.

"Yes?"

"Help me get ma boots on," she ordered, inflecting her voice to sound country. The captain looked to Limmond for advice. As per usual, Limmond had found a point in the wall to stare at, so the captain shrugged and turned to Darcy.

"Hold still," he murmured, tugging on her boots. He grabbed the rubber, trying to ignore the way his fingertips brushed her calf. She clung onto his upper arm and they wrangled for a second.

"Don't get any weird ideas, Limmond," she called out, huffing from the effort. "We're – just – getting – my – ow!"

She whimpered in pain as the boot slid on and momentarily pinched her toes, then stood quickly.

"Excellent good, Captain," she said. "Onward to ice cream."

The captain saluted her.

"Yes ma'am," he said.

"This way," Limmond said, holding open the emergency exit.

The captain hesitated.

"Go on," Darcy said, prodding him in the back with her purse. "This is an ice cream emergency."

***

Steve poked his spoon into the swirl of soft serve. He seemed to question the dessert, his eyebrows furrowing, but he caught Darcy eating the top off of her swirl without the benefits of a spoon as Limmond paid.

"What, they didn't have ice cream before you went under?" Darcy asked, licking around her lips like a fox. Limmond gave her a look and offered her a spoon. Apparently her suggestive eating habits were not up to SHIELD standards.

"I just… this was three dollars?" he asked, pointing at the unimpressive curl of ice cream with his spoon.

"Yeah?"

He raised his eyebrows, crinkling his forehead under his perfect swoop of cinnamon-colored hair. Considering the idea of spending so much money on a dessert was beyond him. Darcy, meanwhile, was unconcerned and flopped down on a bench outside the store where she proceeded to savor her dessert, slowly licking off the spoon accompanied with noises of contentment. With her eyes half-closed, she couldn't see Steve's reaction but heard his chuckle, one that he bit back and tried to turn into a cough.

"Did you realize that SHIELD is, like, anti-junk food?" she said, by way of explanation.

"No, I hadn't realized," Steve replied genially.

"Well, I'm gonna enjoy my one chance to consume a billion calories in one sitting, thank you very much," Darcy replied, her white teeth snapping against the plastic of the spoon.

They sat in silence as Darcy relished her dessert and Steve poked at his.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to play with your food?" Darcy asked through a mouthful of ice cream and plastic spoon.

Steve gave her a sideways look and swirled his spoon in his ice cream. He did not respond and she resumed eating. He watched her eat, watched the curl of her hair kissing her cheekbones, the way her eyelashes brushed her cheeks as she closed her eyes in catlike bliss.

"What're you lookin' at?" she asked, her eyes snapping open and brow furrowing as she was suddenly aware of his inquisitive glance.

The captain stuck a spoonful of ice cream in his mouth and raised his hands in a show of innocence.

"Mnfffn," he tried to say.

Darcy narrowed her eyes, but she couldn't keep her face straight and gave way to giggles, throwing her head back. The idea of a soft-serve eating World War 2 veteran in high-waisted pants with beautiful, sky-blue eyes was hilarious. Especially the way he seemed terrified of her. Steve bent his head to help himself to another spoonful of ice cream, but his eyes crinkled in a full grin.

***

In the middle of their daily debriefing, where Lemon and a few other agents lectured on the historical importance of the places they had visited during the day, Steve slid Darcy a packet of M&Ms.

"What is this?" she asked, keeping her voice down.

"Junk food. My own private stash. M&Ms," Steve clarified, leaning in to whisper into her ear. His breath made her hair tickle the edge of her neck so she squirmed a bit in her seat. "I remember one of the GIs I met while touring Europe suggested that I—"

Darcy giggled, too loud: Limmond glared at her from his post.

"I know what M&Ms are, Cap," she replied in a whisper. "In fact, we have a sort of intimate relationship, if you know what I mean."

"I… uhm… I don't think I know what you mean," Steve replied, looking bemused. She loved the way that his eyebrows turned up and a small smile tweaked at his lips whenever he was confused. This did not make her want to explain herself anymore.

"Nothing," she whispered back. "Thanks."

She popped one into her mouth and sucked on the candy to melt the chocolate.

"Want one?" she asked, turning to Steve.

"I—uhm—no thanks," he replied, blushing.

"I have something for you, too," she whispered back. "Sort of."

"Miss Lewis, do you have something to share with the class?" Limmond asked, his voice dry.

"Are we going to be tested on this?" she asked, giving Limmond her best saucy smile.

"We can arrange that. Here at SHIELD, we are very accommodating." Although he was playing along with her joke, Limmond's voice was harsh, and Darcy took the warning seriously.

"Jeez," she muttered. "It's like high school all over again." And then she was silent for the rest of the lesson.

***

At the end of the meeting, however, Steve remembered her offer.

"So what were you going to give me?" he asked, jumping ahead to open the door for her.

"Well, Casablanca got me thinking," she said. "What were your plans for tonight?"

"We don't have another appointment until tomorrow morning," he replied.

"So you're mine for the evening?" Darcy asked.

He nodded, his face apprehensive.

"Captain America, I am going to bequeath unto you the joys of modern technology."

"Oh goodness," he said, raising his eyebrows.

"We are going to enjoy a magical thing called 'the movies.'"

"You realize they had movies—"

"Just go with it," Darcy interjected.

"Alright."

Steve continued walking her down the hall. As a few agents came down the hall, he nodded at them and stepped aside so Darcy could go first. She glanced back, the idea of his chivalry just beginning to dawn on her. It made her smile.

"Is that a yes?" she prodded, fighting to keep an insipid smile off her face by the way he walked her to her hotel room door.

He gave her a measuring look.

"Alright, on one condition."

"Name your terms, Rogers."

He gave her a mischievous grin, his eyes crinkling.

"I get to choose the movie."

***

"Shh, this is my favorite part," the captain said, playfully covering Darcy's mouth. He had assumed that Darcy would speak through the whole movie — even when she had food in her mouth, she was always chattering on — but he had hoped she could at least enjoy the best moment.

"Don't silence a lady!" she shrieked, objecting only to hide the way she enjoyed the feel of his rough hand across her lips. "What is this?! I thought you were a gentle—"

"Shh!"

They stared at the screen as Claudette Colbert leaned into the road, rolling up her skirt to reveal the shapely curve of her leg. From across the frame, a black-and-white Clark Gable stared in shock at the limb.

"Gasp!" Darcy cried. "Scandalous!"

"It was at the time," Steve replied, laughing genially. "I remember Bucky — we were kids but even then, Bucky was… Bucky… — he turned to me in the middle of the film…" He shook his head, still laughing, and he continued, putting on a deeper voice, "'I'm gonna marry a girl with legs like that.'"

"Really?" Darcy asked, trying to match his reminiscent smile. It was weird to be sitting so close to him on the lounge couch, their thighs almost touching, tilting her head to stare up at his face. It was even a little bit hard to follow the simple logic of the conversation.

"'Doesn't matter if she can't cook or clean… just as long as I'm sleeping in bed with legs like that,'" Steve continued in his put-on deep voice.

He laughed quietly to himself, and the two of them sat in comfortable silence. They watched as the leg successfully hailed a car and the two lovers continued on their adventure. Steve smiled a bit, trying not to think how strange it was that Bucky would never be married. Meanwhile, Darcy gnawed her lips, wondering if baring just a little bit of leg would be enough to flag down Steve Rogers.

As the film continued, Darcy's lack of caffeine combined with her strange new sleeping hours kicked in and she felt herself drifting off. Forgetting her insecurities, her shyness, she tipped her head and found it resting on his shoulder. And Steve didn't mind. Just the reassuring warmth of her next to him, the gentle scent of her hair, and the quiet sounds of It Happened One Night were enough to make Steve, for once, feel at home.


	9. Feeding the Pigeons

After their second trip to the Holocaust Museum, Steve invited Darcy on another run down the national mall. He was quiet as they jogged towards the reflecting pool. They still had not spoken as Darcy sat down on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial to regain her breath.

"This hasn't changed at all," Steve noticed, staring up at the white dome of the memorial, squinting into the glare of the sun.

"Very good," Darcy choked out between gasps. Steve gave her another look, half concern and half amusement. She waved away his worry with a weak hand.

"You really should stand up," he said, unable to keep the laughter from his voice.

Darcy gave him a look and flopped over so she was completely horizontal, her head resting on a step.

"I'm fine on the ground," she moaned out. "Just leave me. Go on without me."

Steve chuckled and considered her for another moment. Then he sat down next to her in silence.

"I should be getting an athletic credit for this too," she wheezed out. Steve looked down at the white steps, blinking as he thought.

"You know, you don't have to join —"

"No, no," Darcy muttered. "I would hate for you to go alone."

"He wouldn't be alone," Limmond interrupted.

"Dammit, Lemon!" Darcy squawked, a hand flying to her heart.

Limmond, in his wrap-around shades, perfectly pressed gray suit, and earpiece was standing at the end of the stairs at attention, smirking to himself. Ever since they left the hotel, Darcy hadn't noticed him following them was surprised to see him, perfectly-coiffed and at attention, at her six. Steve tried to hide a smile by looking down at a stair, but Darcy caught the expression.

"Cap!" she cried in indignation, shoving his shoulder.

"What?" he asked, nonplussed.

Darcy scowled at him. "I thought you were on my side for this! You know, the side of normal people who don't creep around like — like — creepers!"

He chuckled again.

"Watch yourself, Captain America," she growled. When he laughed outright, she huffed and stood up, stalking into the monument before he could follow.

Steve checked himself.

"Should I—?" he gestured towards Darcy. Limmond, however, was back to staring straight ahead and did not answer. The captain was fairly sure that Limmond had at least seen their movie night over the security feed. He wondered what advice Limmond would offer. But from the SHIELD agent's impassive expression, he knew that he wouldn't be getting tips anytime soon. Steve shook his head and followed Darcy inside. She was leaning against a column, her arms crossed.

"So… did people really talk like that?" she asked, jerking her head towards the quotes carved into the walls.

Steve laughed, loudly, a noise that Darcy had never heard before. It echoed through the monument.

"President Lincoln was well before my time," he replied, still grinning.

"I dunno," Darcy replied, embarrassed by her gaffe. "I could definitely see you referring to people as your 'fellow countrymen.'"

"Do you prefer that to 'ma'am?'" Steve asked. Darcy loved the way his whole face lit up with a smile.

In response she cocked a hip to one side, fanned her hair out over her shoulder, and said, "I could make it work."

"I have no doubt," Steve smiled.

"Check out Lemon," Darcy said, nodding towards the entrance of the monument. A couple of foreign tourists were trying to get him to take photos of them, clearly unfazed by his imposing, suited figure. Steve chuckled again.

"Kind of sad, really," she continued. "I suppose SHIELD agents aren't really known for their interpersonal skills, though."

He was stalwartly refusing, crossing his arms in his designer suit, but the tourists were gesturing more and more animatedly.

"Oh, this is painful to watch," Darcy cringed, cackling a bit. "I'm gonna go help him out."

She skipped over, gleeful at Limmond's awkwardness, leaving Steve alone to stare at the addresses carved into the walls. He linked his hands behind his back and began pacing around the monument. After reading the addresses, he lingered by the president, staring up at Lincoln's face for several long moments.

"So… Hope I'm not interrupting," Darcy said, popping up.

"Interrupting?"

"It looked like you two were having a moment. Do you want me to leave you two alone?" she asked. "You know, for some private America time?"

"I'm not quite sure what that means," Steve admitted after a brief pause. Her comment, however, had cracked his stony expression into a bemused smile.

Darcy was saved from having to invent an answer when Limmond appeared, looking slightly ruffled from his encounter with the tourists.

"Captain, Miss Lewis, would you care to explore the other memorials?"

Steve caught himself, his expression fading once more into his familiar scowl.

"I thought the Council had wanted me to be educated chronologically, sir?"

"If you are prepared, Captain, we may continue with your education," Limmond replied. Steve scuffed his foot, looking uncomfortable.

"Can we go to Hawaii?" Darcy piped up.

"Hawaii?" Steve asked.

"It was the fiftieth state," she replied. "Like, the 1950s, right? So that counts as history. Or, rather, future — for you."

Her suggestion was awarded with Limmond's full disapproval, a glower that would have made Coulson proud.

Steve, confused as ever, took the opportunity to go help some tourists that had been trying to flag him down (apparently his American-ness was visible, even from a distance).

"Is someone feeling swimsuit-ready?" Limmond muttered to Darcy, as they both watched Steve struggle to communicate with the foreign tourists. Apparently someone had snooped on their movie night.

"I think you're thinking about this the wrong way," Darcy replied. "Imagine him on the beach. I'm betting we could convince him that Speedos are the height of fashion."

"Ooh," Limmond replied, raising his eyebrows above his sunglasses in a show of appreciation. "Now that is some sight-seeing I could get behind."

"It'd make a helluva postcard," Darcy added.

"A-loh-a," Limmond said, drawing the word out.

"What?" Steve asked, striding up.

"N-noth—" Darcy stuttered out.

"Are you ready to head over to the monuments, Captain?" Limmond interjected, composed as always.

"Yes," Steve nodded, adding to Darcy, "As long as you don't mind?"

"Sounds great," she smiled at Steve, slightly acerbically. She added to Limmond through gritted teeth, "But I would totally prefer Maui."

***

"Huh," Darcy said, sizing up the statues at the Korean War monument.

"What?"

"I believe Miss Lewis is surprised to see that they share her fashion sense," Limmond interjected, pointing to the poncho-wearing statues.

Darcy snorted.

"Thanks, Lemon."

"Anytime, Miss Lewis."

"Why did we get involved in Korea?" Steve asked, looking into the face of one of the downcast soldier-statues. He turned to follow their gaze to an American flag. Darcy saw his right hand twitch, as though he was suppressing the desire to salute.

"K-pop," Darcy muttered, her mouth twitching.

"What?" Steve asked.

"Miss Lewis made yet another bad joke, I'm afraid, Captain Rogers," Limmond interjected, also fighting a smile, his voice tinged with disappointment that made Darcy hide a smile of her own. "The politics surrounding the war were actually an issue of debate for Korea as well as Vietnam."

Darcy considered the soldiers as Limmond filled the captain in on the historical details and the social issues and the casualties. Most of it he had probably already heard; the briefing packets outlined the major wars.

She caught up to them at the Vietnam Memorial, where the scowl was once again engraved on Steve's face and he was still as stone.

"It's a strange concept," he said. "An underground memorial. It's black. It's very… general."

"I think it's supposed to be more personal," Darcy said slowly. "You descend into the causalities of the war. And because it's… shiny… you're reflected and you're, like, one of them."

She hooked her fingers in the waistband of her running shorts and swung herself from side to side like an impatient child.

Steve locked eyes with her reflection in the monument, watching as her surface was marred with names of the fallen.

"Do they have a World War II memorial?" he asked.

"Of course," Darcy replied.

Although Steve didn't say anything, it would have been nice to see at least Bucky's name laid to rest.

"It isn't… in the ground, is it?" he asked.

"No," Darcy replied. "There's, like, a fountain. And bronze walls. It's a bit gaudy, if you ask me."

"He would have liked that," Steve replied with a sad smile. "Something over the top, something…"

"Beautiful?" Darcy asked.

Steve laughed quietly. "Yes, beautiful was definitely his style. Especially," he added, with a thin-lipped smile, "if it meant all the attention was on him."

"I don't see how that could happen," Darcy said honestly before she could stop herself.

"What?"

"I mean," she elaborated, feeling like an idiot, Darcy Lewis and her big mouth, "with you around… you were bound to get some attention."

"Yeah," Steve replied, grinning. "He hated that. Just seeing someone like you talking to me would have… would have really… he… he would not have liked it."

He sounded choked up and the edges of her eyes were pink.

Darcy reached out to pat his arm but after a moment withdrew it. She glanced back to Limmond but he was nowhere to be found. Of course, right when she needed someone who could help. He had probably disappeared into the mass of people walking around like a classic secret agent.

Steve let out a long breath, looking up and blinking rapidly.

"So your friend would have really hated me, huh," Darcy said. "It's okay, people tend to have strong reactions to me. I'm a lot to handle."

"No," Steve said, his voice choked. He looked down at her, and his eyes were filled with tears. "He would have just hated the way that you flir—"

He cut himself off and coughed a bit, awkwardly, shuffling his feet. He laughed, a short awkward interjection, and fell silent.

"Well, if you want I can go pick up another veteran so your friend doesn't think I'm paying you special attention," Darcy said, glancing around. "What about him?" she asked, nodding towards a man feeding the pigeons. From beneath his crumpled hat, they could see his white whiskers and tortoise-like neck. He was scattering seeds on the ground as the birds cooed around him.

Steve wiped impatiently at his eyes and laughed. The wrinkled man sitting over by the fence caught their gaze, touching the brim of his hat. He looked so old, so much older than Steve felt. It was weird to think that could have been him, minding the pigeons and remembering Bucky all alone.

"Don't you own that shirt?" Darcy asked, jerking her head at the plaid button-down. "Hey," shecontinued, chagrined. "Why doesn't Limmond ever give you flack about your style?"

"Because he has a style," Limmond said, appearing from the crowd. Darcy hardly even flinched. "Vintage is better than…" He broke off, raising his eyebrows in silent disapproval.

"New Mexico Chic," Darcy supplied, with an edge to her voice and a glare to match. Apparently, Limmond had nothing to say to this: he cleared his throat and addressed the captain.

"Shall we return to the hotel?" he offered.

As they walked, a thought occurred to Darcy.

"Hmm," Darcy began. "Hey, Lemon?"

"Yes, Miss Lewis?"

"Is there any chance that a makeover could be included in our —"

"Absolutely not," Limmond cut her off.

"Aw, c'mon, Lemon!" Darcy whined. She made a show of stamping after them.

"Although I would love to get him in some Armani," Limmond muttered.

"I would love to get him out of some Armani," Darcy clarified. "If you know what I mean…"


	10. One Step Forward

"Put on something nice, Rogers, we're hitting the town!" Darcy cried as she pounded on Steve's closed hotel room door with her fist.

He opened the door, startled.

"Ma'am?" he asked. "I mean — Darcy?"

She was dressed in a tight bandage dress that left very little to the imagination. He reddened just looking at her. In fact, he could hardly look at her, as every inch of her seemed inappropriate, from her false lashes and thick eyeliner to her pedicured toes, and especially everything in between. She was even almost his height in her ridiculous, stiletto shoes.

"C'mon, Cap, it's about time we did something fun. Something off-curriculum." She smiled lasciviously at him, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder.

"Darcy, it's past midnight." The worry — worry at what she wanted to "do" with or to him — colored his voice.

"Obvi," Darcy replied, pausing to twirl her hair. She glanced down at him; he was wearing khakis and another button-down shirt. He looked as though he had pressed his clothing while wearing it, it was so perfect. "I assume you weren't sleeping?" she asked dryly, indicating his clothing.

He reddened even more. "I was sketching."

"Let's feed that artistic creativity," Darcy insisted. "We're going out."

"I get the feeling that arguing with you is futile," he muttered.

"Think about it this way," Darcy offered, forcing her way into his room and plunking down on the bed. Already she walked with a limp. "If you don't go with me, I'll go alone and terrible things will happen to me. So really, you have to go and protect me." She grinned, baring all her white teeth.

Steve gave her a look.

"I don't think I have anything to wear," he admitted.

"That's fine," Darcy said, indicating his blue plaid shirt. "Just… c'mere."

He looked around as though the furniture was going to provide advice or warning, and then warily paced over.

"There," she said, unbuttoning two buttons so the collar didn't come up under his chin quite so much. "Club ready."

He still looked worried as they headed for the door.

"Really I'm doing you a favor," Darcy added. "This is part of the college experience."

***

"What now?" Steve yelled over the music. He could barely see her face to read her expression under the flashing lights, and the thumping bass coupled with the darkness was more like a warzone than the downtown DC he knew.

"Let's get a drink," Darcy called back. When Steve didn't respond, she mimed drinking. She yelled over to the bartender and reappeared with two glasses that smelled strongly of alcohol.

"No, I don't drink," Steve tried to yell.

"What?" Darcy cupped a hand to her ear.

"I don't drink," he repeated.

She placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned into him so she could whisper-yell in his ear, "I suggest you don't talk, Captain! Just have a good time!"

"What is this music?" he tried to ask, but she was downing her drink and forcing the glass into his hand. He sighed — not that she could hear it — and took a sip, feeling wasteful. He knew he couldn't get drunk, and the last time he had tried…

"Let's dance!" Darcy called, grabbing at his wrists. He could tell now that the one drink wasn't her first, that she had probably already had a few when she knocked on his door.

And the taste of the alcohol reminded him of his last time at a bar, when another woman had reached out to him. It had been quieter then…

"I— I'd rather not," he called back, shaking his head. "I don't really dance."

"C'mon!" Darcy yelled, pulling harder on his wrists.

"No!" he cried, more sharply than he would have wanted. The idea of his first dance, the first dance he had promised to Peggy, going down in this strange, dark, loud room: it felt painful in a visceral way.

"Not like this," he added, but he wasn't sure if she could hear. She just registered the expression, the head-shake, the refusal. For a moment she just looked hurt, withdrawing as though burned.

Then her eyebrows twitched and she mouthed "fine."

"Are you going to drink that?" she yelled at him, pointing to the drink.

"I think you've had enough—"

But before he could stop her, she had downed the drink and tossed it aside on the bar. Unsteady, she wobbled off in her too-high heels.

"Where are you going?" He reached out after her, but the crowd and the lights and the pulsing of the bass were too much.

She whirled, stumbling in her shoes, her dress sliding up. It was tight, too tight to be comfortable, and too tight to stay put at she walked. She yanked it down angrily.

"I'm going to dance!" And with that she stamped off towards the dance floor, leaving a contrite Steve standing alone at the bar.

"Darcy!" he yelled, pushing through the crowd. "Excuse me, excuse me." People didn't listen as he politely asked to get through and he found himself trapped, claustrophobic in the wall of people gyrating to the low-tones of the bass.

And then he saw her, across the room. She was up against another man, his hands running down her thighs, tearing at the dress. The fabric skirted up, higher and higher as she danced, pressing into him. His lips swooped down her neck, down her shoulder, greedily tasting the flesh.

Before Steve knew it, he was next to them, watching her eyes close in that same cat-like look she had when she was eating the ice cream, the same curls bouncing off her perfect skin.

"Get off of her!" he yelled, ripping the man away.

"Steve — no!" Darcy stumbled; with the man gone, she had nothing to balance against.

"That is no way to treat a lady!" Steve was yelling, but the music was too loud for anyone to hear him and the flashing lights were confusing everyone. Darcy was dizzy, her heels too high, her stomach unsettled, the bitter after-taste of alcohol still burning her mouth. Without the steady motion of grinding, she felt unstable. The dip of the floor was more obvious. She stretched out her arms, searching for something, anything to grab onto.

Meanwhile, her dance partner had taken a hasty swing at the captain, either too drunk or too stupid to comprehend his size and strength. The punch was easily deflected; Steve was more worried about what he might do to this man than the other way around. He clenched his jaw until his teeth hurt — this man was not an enemy, he just had bad manners and had had too much to drink — and resisted the urge to strangle the stranger. Instead, he shoved him up against a wall.

"You need to learn some more respect," he heard himself growling into the man's face.

"Whoah, man," the guy said, wide-eyed. "We were just dancing. I didn't realize she was your girlfriend."

Steve didn't bother to correct the terrified drunk, but instead reached out for Darcy, who was wobbling quite obviously.

"We're going," he said, his voice a loud command.

"No, no, no. I'm having fun," Darcy said, speaking every word carefully, trying to avoid his steadying grip. She was so off-balance, though, that she fell towards him. Steve shot another look at the man and shrugged out of his jacket. He covered her in it, to hide the curves that her dress showed off so well.

"You've had too much to drink," Steve replied. She walked alongside him through the club, still unsteady. How many drinks had she had while he wasn't looking?

"You're angry," Darcy whined. "Why are you angry?"

They had made it to the club's door and Steve nodded to the bouncer there. He felt a camaraderie with this other gentleman in charge of order and justice. They both were there to protect people from the dangers of drinking. For once, Steve was glad that alcohol could no longer affect him.

Steve hailed a cab but Darcy refused to get in.

"Darcy," he began, his voice iron control. "You have to go home—"

"But not with you!" Darcy shrieked.

"It's my job to make sure that you get home safe," he continued, and without any warning picked her up and deposited her safely in the cab. He then closed the door, walked around, and got into the front seat where he ignored the curious glances of the driver.

The cab ride was silent, except for Darcy groaning in the back seat. Steve sat with his arms crossed, his shoulders almost too wide for the small seat.

When they arrived at the hotel, he almost had to carry her into the lobby.

"I cannot believe you, Captain America," Darcy whisper-screamed, annunciating each word carefully to keep the syllables from running together.

Steve smiled politely at an elderly couple checking in at the front desk, the expression somewhat strained.

"I just wanted to have some fun, do something fun for a change—"

"That was not fun, Miss Lewis," he snapped, losing his patience. "You have had too much to drink and I'm making sure you get back to your room alright."

They rode the elevator up. Darcy filled the silence by muttering, and by her expression and tone Steve gathered that she was mocking him.

"One of us has to be responsible," he muttered as the elevator doors opened on their floor.

"Well, this is me," she slurred, jerking a finger toward her door at the end of the hall.

"When I said I was getting you back alright, I meant all the way," Steve replied, his voice dangerous. Darcy gave him a look of pure hatred, her mouth falling open. She stomped down to the door.

"You are so terrible!" she cried, struggling with the key-card swipe of the door. After another aggravated groan, she got it to work and angrily threw it open. "Fine! Come into my room, lecture me!"

"If that's what it takes!" he replied, equally angry.

"You are not my father, Steve Rogers!" She stumbled in her shoes and angrily tore at them with her fingernails, ripping them off and throwing them violently across the room where they collided with the wall with a resounding thunk. "I can take care of myself! I'm an adult!"

"Well you sure as hell aren't acting like one!" he replied.

"We can't all be as old as shit!" she cried, stumbling in her too-tight skirt. "Take your fucking coat!" she yelled, throwing it at him. He caught it, red in the face.

"And y'know what, Steve, Steve," she continued, ripping at the zipper on her dress. "No matter how many fucking times you give me your coat I am not going to fuck you!"

Steve's face was tempestuous.

"You seem to be misinformed," he replied, his voice quiet. "Because I would only ever lie down with a lady."

He emphasized the word, his lips curling. Darcy struggled with the zipper on her dress, pulling at it. It was so tight, so uncomfortable, why had she worn this stupid dress? To impress him? All she remembered what him shaking his head and his beautiful lips saying, "no" over and over again. No. No. No. As she struggled with the stupid garment, she only felt herself growing more and more angry.

"A lady! A lady!" Darcy shrieked, breaking off into a wordless yell. She stumbled around, cursing her clothing. "This isn't the 1940s, you sexist jackass!"

"You are a child," he replied calmly, spitting out the words. "And a brat."

She ripped off her dress and threw it aside, her face twisting in anger.

"Is that what I am, Captain America?" she asked, her voice dangerous.

But something in his face had changed; his eyes drifted down, surprised to find that she was undressed.

"What?" she asked. She had meant it to be angry, but her voice failed her, and the challenge came out like a sob.

"I—I" He glanced down at her body, stuttering to himself. She was paler than he had expected, and the bared curves of her body seemed impossibly perfect. He felt like he used to, before the serum, when he had run and run and run until his lungs hadn't worked anymore. Asthma, the doctors had called it, but he knew that couldn't be what was making him breathless before a lingerie-clad Darcy. Part of him was embarrassed that he felt this way, that they were arguing and the mere sight of her, half-naked and staring longingly at him, could make him feel so strange.

"What?" she repeated, her expression softening. She even sounded close to tears.

"I'll see you in the morning," he replied, wrenching his eyes away from her body. He turned and left, closing the door behind him. It took him a few minutes to let go of the handle his hands were trembling so badly. He felt his knees grow weak, a strange feeling, because this new body was so strong. He closed his eyes as his knees folded beneath him and he slid down the door until he felt the ground under him.

Darcy Lewis. Impulsive, foolish, flirtatious Darcy Lewis was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Maybe if he had learned this earlier, they could have been together, and shared ice cream and cherry blossoms and he could have sketched her perfect form every day for the rest of forever. But after tonight, he just saw a scared child, one who drank too much and pressed herself up against strangers in the dark, flashy loudness of clubs. One who yelled curse words and threw her clothing into walls. It was a pity that she was completely wrong for him, because he realized just then that she was exactly what he needed.


	11. Coulda Woulda Shoulda

Darcy emerged from her room the next morning at a time closer to lunch than breakfast. Limmond was standing at his post in the hallway and gave her a look full of judgment. She wondered what Captain America had said about her. She wondered what Captain America had thought about her.

She was ready to return with a glare of her own, but Limmond turned towards the lobby entrance.

"Good morning, Captain," he said, and Darcy followed his gaze. Captain America was walking through the lobby, back from an early morning run. The morning was unseasonably warm, and he had his shirt draped around his neck like a towel. Despite her anger, Darcy could not help but stare at his bare chest.

He gave her a wary look, as though reading her lascivious thoughts, and removed the shirt from his neck to put it on. He was still breathing heavily from the run, and the shirt clung to his damp skin.

In response, he nodded at Limmond.

"Are we still on schedule?" he asked, walking down towards the elevators. Limmond walked with him, easily matching his stride. Darcy rolled her eyes to hide how small this made her feel, but ultimately relented and trotted after them.

"Hey, Captain!" she called, as he pressed the elevator button.

"Ma'am?" he asked, turning back to her. His face looked like it had been chiseled out of stone. It was cold, his blue eyes dimmed. It was like she was a stranger to him again.

"I—uhm…" Now that she had his attention, she had no idea what to say.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened.

"I expect to see you at the briefing," was all he said as he got into the elevator. The doors closed and he was gone.

***

They did see each other at the briefing; Darcy made a point of sitting across from him. He did not look at her once. His steady disappointment, a feeling that seemed to radiate from him, made her feel like she should apologize for her behavior. So perhaps she had screamed at him. But she had been provoked. A small part of her mind stubbornly repeated that it was his fault, he was the one who turned her down, who had been so stubborn and high and mighty.

As she stared at him throughout the briefing, at his imposing form, his perfect, statuesque face staring blindly ahead, she realized that he had been right. She was acting like a child, like a teenager not knowing her limit and being irresponsible. After so many weeks of living at SHIELD, she had overcompensated. And the worst part was that she wasn't surprised. As always, Darcy Lewis had fucked things up again.

***

The more Darcy thought about it, though, the more she realized that he was the one being childish with his silent treatment. She ran into him in the hallway the next morning on her way down to breakfast and he squared his shoulders, crossing his arms. When the elevator came, she stepped in and waited for him, but he didn't move.

"Going down?" she asked.

He huffed to himself.

"Well, are you coming?" she asked. He still had the same scowl etched into his face, causing a crinkle between his brows. He seemed to be debating with himself.

"Fine," Darcy muttered, releasing the door-open button. At that exact moment, the pro-Darcy part of his mind won and he stuck a hand between the closing doors.

He stepped into the opposite half of the elevator, too close to the far wall in an attempt to separate himself from her. She glanced at him, a sideways look, then crossed her arms under her chest. It turned her face quizzical, like she had tasted something sour. Her cheeks grew warm, remembering the way he had stared at her, half naked and yet totally enraged.

They were silent, watching the floors count down to the lobby.

"Just so you know, I don't usually—"

"I know," Steve interrupted. For once, he looked at her, and she just stared. His eyes were an amazing blue color, a clear crystal color that she thought only existed on postcards for the Caribbean. She had forgotten. Was it strange that it made her sad that she had forgotten?

After another moment they both turned back to the elevator walls.

She colored, thinking what he thought of her.

"And I wasn't going to— with him—"

"Of course," Steve replied. He clasped his hands in front of him, staring off into the distance, as though the elevator wall disappeared into a horizon. He was doing that thing, that thing all the SHIELD agents did. He was treating her like a piece of furniture, a prop on the set.

"Of course," she snapped back at him. The elevator doors parted and he placed a hand on the open door. When he didn't move to leave, she snorted.

"Ladies first?" she asked, her voice mocking.

He stared at her, his eyes icy, but said nothing.

The people outside were confused, trying to get into the elevator. Their standoff was becoming a public issue.

But Darcy, stubborn as always, moved her hands to her hips and glared right back.

After a moment he turned his eyes to the floor and stepped through the doors.

"Huh, I suppose you don't think I'm a lady anyway," Darcy muttered, loud enough for him to hear. But Steve pretended not to hear and walked to the breakfast buffet in silence. Darcy was left in the lobby, twisting her hairband and replaying her words over in her head. Somehow they sounded much stupider then.

***

Steve had a relatively easy time accepting civil rights, what with Limmond being black and all. But Darcy did catch him giving Limmond a weird look, as though wondering about his personal history. She had always assumed that the topic had been covered before: she couldn't imagine anyone disrespecting Nick Fury.

"So what is the correct terminology?" she heard him ask Limmond, standing like a soldier, feet shoulder's width apart and hands clasping wrists.

"African American," Limmond responded. He took this lesson very seriously, she realized; not once did she catch him ogling the captain. "No hyphen."

"Alright," Captain said, mentally processing the information, nodding as though trying to secure the new term in his memory. Darcy had to fight a smile, imagining how Nick Fury would respond to a racial malapropism from the captain. Then she remembered that she was angry with Steve — or, rather, he was angry with her, or maybe even they were angry with themselves — and the smile was gone.

"Dr. King wasn't the only civil rights leader," Limmond continued, "but he paid with his life for his beliefs. He inspired millions of Americans — not to mention others fighting for racial justice around the world."

Steve was glancing up at the statue, still scowling. The expression had become permanent, Darcy assumed, and a small part of her mind triumphed at the idea that she had put it there.

She was standing by the plaque, pretending to read it, when movement in her peripheral vision alerted her that she wasn't alone. He was coming over, walking over from the other side of the monument. She wondered what had triggered his forgiveness, or what had convinced him to finally acknowledge her. She considered how she should respond; should she remain aloof, force an apology from him as she deserved? Or should she be rude, make him squirm, make every moment uncomfortable for him?

She imagined in her head how it would play out. She would leap into his arms and wrap her legs around him, to get closer to him, as close as possible, as close as their clothes would permit, and maybe even she could help him shed some of those layers. Or, instead, perhaps he would take her by the waist and swing her in a romantic dip like the solider in that black-and-white photo, until she saw fireworks. Or, perhaps he was coming over because he sensed some threat, some villain-bad-guy lurked over her shoulder and he was coming to save the day, to fight him off, to protect her from the rest of the world. And do so without his shirt on. After that morning, Darcy was fully convinced that it there should be another amendment to the constitution forbidding Captain America from wearing shirts.

But, no, real life was happening, so Darcy snapped herself out of daydreams, as pleasant as they were. He was looming by her side — she still hadn't turned — and made a show of crossing his arms. He was so close that the edge of his arm brushed her shoulder. And suddenly, she just felt a twinge of terror somewhere in the center of her chest. A small part of her mind panicked, cried out in terror: she didn't want to deal with this. She didn't want to have to interact with him in real life. In her imagination, it was easy to ridicule him, to make him come crawling back, to picture him acting out every genre of her fantasy that she catalogued like her DVD collection. But she knew that, given a chance in real life, she would pick all the wrong words. Her hair couldn't look as perfect, her tone could not be as flirtatious. She was aware that her heart was beating very loudly, that her lips had fallen open and she was all but panting like an idiot.

He cleared his throat and, stupidly — in an instinctual response — she turned to look at him. He was taller than she expected, so close next to hear. She felt her neck craning up to look directly into his eyes. His entire face seemed under shadow from his enormous scowl. His eyes looked darker, although she knew that was just a trick of the light.

"Excuse me," he said darkly, and she took a step back without processing it. He gave her a glare over his shoulder (she realized she had continued taking steps back far longer than required) and he bent over to read the information about the monument.

Immediately she ridiculed herself for being so stupid. Why would Captain America want anything to do with her?

***

Darcy ate her dinner — Chinese takeout — alone in front of her hotel room's flat screen. She couldn't bring herself to be in the same room as him, and meals had deteriorated into awkward, silent affairs. She was opening up her second take out box of lo mein when a knock came at her door.

In response, she made a loud noise that somewhat resembled a dying moose.

The door opened; it was Limmond, taking full advantage of his SHIELD-issued master key. He took one look at her, wrapped up in her comforter and struggling with a pair of disposable chopsticks, shook his head, and waltzed right in. He picked up an empty soup bowl and gave her a judgmental look. After digging through the "thank-you" bag, he found an unopened box, pried it open, and took a cautious sniff.

"Hm." He sounded impressed and helped himself to a plastic fork so he could begin munching on the chicken and cashews.

"Nu-uh," Darcy replied.

"Mm?" Limmond made an inquisitive noise through a spoonful of fried rice.

"Nope," Darcy said stubbornly. "No, no, no."

They sat as the jangling theme song to Sex and the City blared; Darcy pretended to be transfixed by the introduction to the show and fought to remain silent.

Carrie Bradshaw had begun her monologue when Limmond cleared his throat.

"Do you have any soy?" he asked.

"Dammit Lemon!" Darcy shrieked. "I am not falling for into your trap!"

He looked at her, blinking innocently. She glared right back.

"I just —"

"Your Jedi mind tricks won't work on me," she huffed, coiling herself tighter in the down comforter. "I'm not just going to spill my secrets because you look at me funny."

"Shh," Limmond said. "I'm trying to watch the show."

"I bet Captain America sent you in here to check in on me."

Limmond was silent.

"I bet he thinks I'm in here screwing another drunk off the street."

A commercial break flickered on; Limmond helped himself to an egg roll.

"I bet he's wondering what Stupid Darcy Lewis could have gotten up to this time."

An advertisement for citrus-scented soap blared with an annoying salesman and lots of large numbers in red with slashes through them. The phone number scrolled at the bottom, a 1-800 number.

"But it's not going to work," Darcy continued. "I don't need him. I don't even want him. In fact, I want nothing to do with SHIELD, at all."

The program had returned; Limmond sighed.

"What?" Darcy growled.

"You're talking over Mr. Big," he replied.

Surprise registered on her face; then Darcy offered a small smile, even though Limmond wasn't looking.

"Thanks, Lemon," she said quietly.

"Shhh," he replied.


	12. Debriefing

The next morning at their meeting, Limmond's mini-me passed around the packets for the day's lesson while Darcy and Steve both sat in silence. Her girls' night in had definitely softened her anger, but she could tell by the furrow in the captain's brow that he hadn't spent his evening so leisurely. From the red, raw patches on his knuckles she assumed he had been hitting something, repeatedly. She wondered if the hotel had a gym, and found herself distracted by the concept of Steve Rogers lifting weights. Or Steve Rogers, doing yoga. Or Steve Rogers, period.

"Agent Limmond, this lesson is a waste of time," Steve said, his harsh tone cutting through Limmond's droning lecture.

Darcy snapped out of her daydreaming and looked down at the pamphlet. Second-wave feminism? Steve Rogers thought this was a waste of time?

She opened her mouth with an angry reply, indignant — he could ma'am her all he wanted, offer her jackets, and think whatever he thought, but disrespecting Simone de Beauvior was entirely another issue.

"No offense," Steve quickly interjected, his voice barely a mutter. His slitted eyes jerked in her direction as he offered a small nod, as though bowing to her outrage and simultaneously dismissing it.

"What does that—!" Darcy began, furious. Hero or not, he couldn't think that he knew everything there was about women just because he held open a few doors and offered his hand.

"What do you mean, Captain?" Limmond asked, patient as always. But there was something careful in his voice; he traded a look with his underling. He then held out a hand to placate Darcy. She made a noise of indignation — all these men gesturing at her and feminism as though it were secondary — but Steve spoke before she had a chance to even come up with a satisfactory response.

"This is a waste of time," the captain repeated, waving a hand around at the room. So feminism had nothing to do with it. Still a gentleman after all. Darcy still wanted to be mad at him anyway and hold it against him like a Britney Spears song.

He continued, "These lessons, these debriefings, this."

Darcy was momentarily distracted by the idea of debriefing him. Then she wondered if he did, in fact, wear briefs, or little plaid boxers that matched his shirts. Then she remembered that she was supposed to hate him. It took her a few moments, but she eventually realized that he was calling their meetings — Operation Darcy's History Credit with all its witty banter and flirtatious moments — a waste of time.

One voice in Darcy's mind said: Fuck you, Captain America, I'm not a waste of your time. Damn fucking shit fuck you.

Another voice said: Yes, I rather would enjoy fucking him.

"Are you questioning my knowledge?" Limmond asked.

"Not at all, Agent Limmond," Steve replied, his voice even. "However, I am questioning—"

"My orders were specific, Captain," Limmond interrupted quietly; Darcy recoiled in her seat, suddenly aware that both men were very angry — they simply did a very good job of masking or controlling it.

"I would like to speak to superiors," the captain replied.

Limmond nodded; his jaw twitched slightly and he stepped outside.

***

"I've seen the footage, Agent Limmond," Nick Fury said.

"Excellent," Limmond said into the phone.

"Your performance deserves commendation. I'll make sure to put a note in your file."

"Thank you, Director."

Limmond glanced up; seeing that Darcy had followed him into the hall he held the phone away from his lips and rolled his eyes.

"Director, may I call you back?" he said into the mouthpiece.

He hung up and gave Darcy a glare.

"I think I missed something…?" Darcy said timidly.

"Would you like me to debrief you on the latest operation?" Limmond said, his voice tinged with sarcasm.

"Uhm… yes?"

"What you saw in there was the official end of this mission."

"You mean… it's over?"

"Yes."

"I don't think he meant it —" She sounded as teary-eyed as she sure she looked. Limmond gave her a look.

"Captain America just pulled rank on me in there."

"So?"

"So?" Limmond repeated. "Director Fury believes that means he's ready."

"Ready for what?" Darcy's voice trembled.

"To stop playing and go back to work," he replied.

"This isn't playing—"

"This was a vacation, a diversion, the — necessary — groundwork. Now, Captain Rogers can go back to what he really wants to do."

"And what's that?"

"Make a difference for the country." He gave her a look, pulling down his sunglasses to lock eyes with her for once. She was biting her lip, her fingers trembling as they tied and untied knots in her hairband. He opened his mouth as though he wanted to say something, but then settled on merely smirking at her. She felt that she wanted to slap him for being so smug.

Limmond's phone buzzed and he strode away to make preparations, all pleased with himself for rehabilitating Captain America from confused-defrosted-ice-cube-man to functioning-agent. Darcy chewed her lip and tried to pretend she didn't feel like crying at the idea that an entire country could be more important than her. Especially after the man comparing the two had seen her in her sexiest underwear, the kind that wasn't rainbow or polka dot.

***

Steve sat through the plane trip back from DC in silence, still riding the high from his angry outburst that had successfully gotten him hundreds of miles away from Darcy Lewis. He was still angry, though, a sort of simmering anger that made a vein throb in his left temple and kept the scowl on his forehead. All he knew that was whenever he thought about her, whenever he saw her, whenever anything reminded him of her, he felt a rush of heat and knew that he needed to get away from her.

When he touched down in New York, he was silent when possible and curt when he had to speak. He returned to Brooklyn, set up an apartment, and tried to forget about Darcy Lewis. He woke up in the morning, shaved, ate his corn flakes, and tried to get back to his old life.

At his request, SHIELD sent over the files of his old friends and he started investigations. All of them were gone — a weird part of him was jealous for the storybook endings to their lives — except Peggy. He thought about calling her. He thought about how it would be to hear her voice again and listen to her advice and remember what it was like when he was the smaller person in the world and she was going to teach him how to dance. And then he realized she probably hadn't saved a dance for him, after all. Part of him felt stupid for still saving that dance for her after all this time.

He tried to track down someone named Tony Stark, the son of the man who had helped make him Captain America back when he had understood the world. His SHIELD file listed his home address as New York, so he found himself an overlook point and sat down. He glanced around, missing the cherry blossoms of DC and the unchanging beauty of the monuments. Instead, he sketched the ugly, modern buildings. They seemed to tower above, leering down at him in reverse vertigo.

"Waiting on the big guy?"

He turned to see a blonde waitress, smiling at him, every iota of politeness.

"Ma'am?" The word was out of his lips before he remembered that women didn't like that term anymore. She didn't seem to mind, blushing a bit to herself, and Steve only hated her more. She was supposed to object, to respond with a witty, scathing statement, or call him sergeant just to spite him. He felt his eyebrows drawing together, and the scowl hurt.

"Iron Man," she replied with a smile, nodding so her blonde curls bounced. "A lot of people eat here just to see him fly by."

Steve glanced up, staring at the building. It was strange to think that Howard Stark had a son, even stranger to think that this son was famous and people called him Iron Man.

"Right," he replied, because the polite blonde waitress was expecting something.

She kept staring.

"Maybe another time," he offered, trying to sound polite. She was looking at him, a gentle smile that was the opposite of how Darcy had looked at him. She was all soft corners and coddling. She felt like a non-presence, a hairdo and a smile. He reached for his money.

"The table's yours as long as you'd like it," she cooed, refilling his coffee. He glanced up. Was she flirting? Of course. He was a weapon of mass seduction now, wasn't he? She didn't even know his name. Were all women these days so superficial?

"Nobody's waiting on it," she added when he didn't seem grateful at her overtures.

He still didn't respond and she turned to go.

"Plus," she added, glancing back, "we've got free wireless."

"Radio?" Steve asked, mentally rebuking himself. He should have at least asked for lessons in technology. He supposed that was the next unit, after wars and social issues. She turned to give him one last smile —his guess must have been laughably far off — and her blue eyes drifted down over him. He felt the furrow between his brows deepen. That, that right there, had been the way that Darcy had looked at him. At least Darcy hadn't been so obvious as this stranger.

He thought about asking for her telephone number, but it only made him feel like his pulse was fizzing, a ringing sort of anger. He wondered if he could have asked for Darcy Lewis's number. Maybe should would have Twittered at him. The thought made him feel very small, and like he desperately needed to hit something. Luckily, the subway wasn't that different, and he could find a punching bag — or two.

***

Each hit felt good, the crisp noise of his fisting making contact, the way it gave him an excuse to scowl. He imagined the face of that man at the club and punched until his knuckles were sore and the punching bag scattered into sand on the ground.

"Trouble sleeping?"

He looked up to see Nick Fury, that man who had first told him just how long he had been asleep. How had he found him?

"I slept for seventy years, sir, I think I had my fill," he replied, returning to the punching bag. A sudden wave of déjà vu made him think of Darcy, but a few more punches helped quell the muddle of feelings such a thought stirred. Instead, he tried to focus the present enigma: Fury was in his gym, following him. Steve knew that he had already become a pawn in this man's game. A small part of his mind wondered if Darcy could have been a trained actress, there to convince him back to SHIELD. He kept hitting the punching bag. Of course not, he realized. Darcy, with her rainboots and tears and her random movie references and clever little comments was too spontaneous to be scripted. A part of him wondered if that was a compliment or an insult.

"Then you should be out, celebrating, seeing the world," Fury continued. Steve looked up. He had seen the world, a very small sliver of the world, and it wasn't something he wanted to see again. Where men grabbed women in dark corners and ice cream was three dollars.

"When I went under, the world was at war. When I woke up, they say we won. They didn't say what we lost."

He knew what they lost: chivalry, and proper dancing, and millions of lives, and the pure simplicity of falling in love without strange pop culture references or dubious fashion choices.

"We've made some mistakes along the way, some very recently."

"You're here with a mission, sir?" he asked, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. He knew that SHIELD only cared about him as a captain, which was both comforting and upsetting.

"I am."

"Trying to get me back into the world?" He tried not to glare, tried not to add a surly "again" onto the end of his sentence.

"Trying to save it," Fury clarified.

It was called, Fury told him, The Avengers Initiative. And it would mean making a difference, being a hero, stopping the bullies (even if they were from outer-space). But the best part about The Avengers was that Darcy Lewis had nothing to do with it.


	13. The Avengers

"Congratulations," Limmond said. He handed Darcy her diploma. "It arrived in the mail this morning."

She seemed excited to see the padded envelope; when she ripped it open to see what it was, though, her expression seemed to deflate.

"Oh."

"What, did you want more pomp and circumstance?" Limmond asked.

"Uh, yeah, I guess," Darcy replied.

"You realize that was a pun," he clarified, staring at her as though she were stupid.

"You don't say, Lemon," she replied, rolling her eyes.

"Just ask Sir Edward Elgar," Limmond added. He started humming the song, smiling somewhat.

Darcy gave him an unenthused look and he chuckled a bit.

"SHIELD is pleased that the mission was a success," he continued.

"Yep, super-success," Darcy said, all sarcasm, chucking her diploma into the neighboring chair. The conference room felt so empty without the other agents and without the captain; with just her and Lemon, it was anti-climactic and there were too many empty seats.

"Even though the directors don't really care either way, it is my personal hope that your loss has been more-than-mitigated."

"Well, I graduated college without bankrupting myself or having to become a streetwalker, so that's a plus," Darcy said, swiveling around in her chair. The room swung one way and then the other from her perch in the chair.

"I remember when I graduated," Limmond said, staring off into the distance, but in a nostalgic rather than secret-agent way.

"From where?"

He gave her a look.

"Really?" she asked. "That's top secret?"

He stared flatly at her.

"No," she continued. "I bet you're just embarrassed. What, did you major in classical bassoon or something?"

"Something like that," Limmond replied with a tempered smile. "But what I most remember is signing up for SHIELD."

Darcy snorted.

"Spare me the speech, Lemon, I realize that I have to get a job. Waitressing has always been a calling of mine. Maybe I'll work in a diner, where my seriously-ugly attire will be mandatory."

"Ugh." Limmond looked horrified at the idea of Darcy in diner-dress. He shook himself, as though to dispel the image, and continued, "That wasn't what I meant. I was trying to offer you an option."

"You want me to enlist?"

"No," Limmond rolled his eyes. "Join SHIELD."

"Wha—? No."

"You already know half our protocols, and you have plenty of agents who will write you a recommendation."

"Like who?" Darcy asked. "Mini-Lemon?" she asked, gesturing towards the door and the agent stationed outside.

"Yes, Agent Kiwi," Limmond replied.

"Is that seriously his name?" Darcy sounded ecstatic.

Limmond gave her a look that managed to be equal parts judgmental and sarcastic.

"Dude, I'm calling him that," Darcy enthused.

"Don't get off topic," Limmond scolded. "Think about it. We take interns on in the summer, usually, but I'm sure they wouldn't mind an extra underling through the spring semester."

Darcy paused.

"I guess—" she relented.

Limmond handed her a second envelope.

"Good choice," he said.

"I didn't—"

"I'm a spy," he reminded her. "I can read people. Plus, I'm Agent Lemon of SHIELD: I know everything."

"You already filled this out," Darcy said, reading over the page. "… In my handwriting."

"Fill out the personal statement and return to me."

Darcy glared at him and made a show of searching for a pen and then filling out the page.

"Just don't mention that dog you had when you were little…"

"But Sparkles is an excellent example of my qualifications!" Darcy exclaimed.

***

Even though Darcy listed caring for her childhood poodle, Sparkles, as previous job experience on her application for a spy agency, she was accepted into the program. On her first day of work, they finger printed her and handed her many key cards that she was sure she would mix up along with a thick guide book she promptly threw under the bed of her dorm-style bedroom. On the second day of work, they started her on the coffee route and she set to work memorizing who preferred hazelnut flavor shots or soy milk. On her third day, Limmond sent her a present. She unwrapped the box and grinned when she saw a pair of wrap-around shades. Even though she had trouble seeing when she wore them indoors, they made her feel cool and she could deal with occasionally bumping into furniture.

Overall, the work was tedious at best. She occasionally typed up paperwork, and hated dealing with the logistical snafus of bad agent behavior. Coulson's name even popped up a few times and Darcy tried to pretend that she wasn't curious. But as all the major information was either in code or translated into SHIELD's own personal language of numbers and acronyms, she had little idea of what was happening.

"Get me three shots of espresso today, Lewis," Limmond ordered on the morning of her fourth day. He had his sunglasses off but his eyes were closed; he pinched the bridge of his nose and around his eyes looked puffy from lack of sleep.

"Sure," Darcy said, lingering by the door of the conference room. He had files strewn out in front of him. Darcy knew she wasn't supposed to look, but so many familiar names jumped out at her: Selvig, Thor, Jane. Remembering her place, though, she was able to tear herself away and begin the familiar route to the nearest Starbucks, chewing her lips as she thought. Limmond had probably stayed up several nights in a row, dealing with a problem at SHIELD. Something that was affecting her friends. She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, her heart pinching her chest. What if Steve was there? What if they had roped Steve into some dangerous mission, where he and Jane and Selvig and Thor could all get hurt?

Her heart seemed to rocket into her throat, faster and faster, and she picked up the pace, using her speed-walking as an excuse for her elevated heart rate. When she got into Starbucks, she ordered breathlessly.

"Venti café Americano, with three shots of espresso," she said. "For Lemon."

The barista didn't give her a weird look when she gave the name. She had been counting on that, some light banter.

"So how's the day going?" she asked, grasping at the straws of any distraction, even uncomfortable small talk.

"Kinda weird," the barista replied. "I've got family in New York, so…" He trailed off, his eyes turning towards the television.

"Wait, what happened?" she asked, reaching for the coffee he handed her. The television was showing shaky cell phone footage and a far-away clip from a helicopter. They were all fuzzy, but she caught what looked like a small tornado leading from the top of Stark Tower.

"Can you turn the sound on?" she heard herself ask.

"—and we haven't heard if the National Guard will be responding," the newscaster was saying. "But there are still reports that a group of law enforcement officials, known as 'The Avengers,' have been involved in the events in New York…"

Darcy was vaguely aware that the barista was yelling at her. She looked down to see that she had spilled her coffee all over the counter and herself.

"The Avengers?" she squeaked out. Why did that sound familiar? What file had she seen that in, who had mentioned it? Did Coulson say something about avenging?

"Yeah," the barista replied, giving her a wary look. "A weird rag-tag group, if you ask me. There's like a green guy, some hot lady in black, some nerd in an American flag…"

He may have continued listing, but everything seemed to go silent for Darcy, like she had pressed her fingers into her ears and could only hear the low-frequency whoosing of her blood in her ears.

Who else would be stupid enough to go into battle wearing something as flashy as an American flag? It had to be him, the Captain America version of him. Her mind rewound and repeated: go into battle. Battle.

"Sorry I have to go," she said, blindly shoving a bill at the barista. She couldn't even be sure it was US currency; it could have been her Jamba juice frequent buyer card for all she knew. And then she was running, running to the street, to the metro, where she tumbled through a turnstile and took the first train to Union Station, where she bought a ticket in a fog and boarded a train to New York City — or as close as it would take her.

***

The first thing that struck her about getting out of the cab in midtown was the smell, a burnt sort of singed smell, like when she burned her hair in a flatiron. What the hell was she doing? She could hear glass shattering, and the loud popping noises of police gunfire, but this seemed like a dim memory, a videogame, a film flickering in the IMAX theater. It was the screams that drew her attention, and her eyes focus on a bank. Right. She had paid attention during her SHIELD internship paperwork (kind of) and they had mentioned something about protecting citizens, or innocents, or babies. So she set her jaw and made a run for the corner of 42nd and Madison, not paying attention as the cab driver shot away, the tires screeching. She should have apologized for making him drive so close to the war zone. She hadn't realized. She hadn't thought. It was like she hadn't been in her body since that moment in Starbucks. She was disoriented, staring in horror at the creatures overhead. Why was there a hole in the sky?

She paused outside the bank, wondering if perhaps an institution like this would have given her good rates on student loans. She shook herself and reminded herself to focus, trying to ignore the sounds of low-flying aircraft. Police outside were trying to herd people into the subway, but no one noticed her. Once inside, she pushed open the emergency exit — if Limmond did it, why not her? — and ran up the flights, wishing she had added more cardio. What had made her keep running when she ran with Captain America through the cherry blossom lined streets of DC? Of course: she thought of it and just remembered snapshots of him, the bold squareness of his jaw, the feathered shadow of his eyelashes, the bright blue of his eyes. She made it up the flights of stairs and pushed the door open.

There were a lot of people inside. Tens, hundreds — she didn't know numbers, what the hell? When in math class had they taught her estimate hostages in a warzone when the world was being invaded by aliens? Why hadn't they done this? She mentally cursed Mrs. Robinson from the eleventh grade. They stared at her, a few even screaming at her dramatic entrance.

"Stay calm," she said, her voice a ragged gasp. Great entrance, Darcy Lewis, a voice in her head said. She probably even had coffee all down her front. Maybe they would think it was blood. Was that better? "I'm with SHIELD." Shit, was she not supposed to say that? Was that secret? She mentally cursed her own stupidity. What was she doing here?

The people stared at her, half-crouched down as though ready to protect themselves from an earthquake. That was what they had taught in school, during those weird drills where people crouched down and put their hands on the backs of their necks. Darcy stared.

Suddenly a window behind them shattered and a form rolled in, screeching. All the people in the bank started screaming and Darcy was screaming too. The alien — it had to be an alien, with its skull-like face and too-long arms and weird glowing weapon — began gesturing violently at the people. Wincing, Darcy began propping the emergency exit door open. When she had gone out to late parties in high school, she had learned how to sneak back into the house, gingerly sliding open the back door and stepping only on the parts of the floor that wouldn't squeak. This was just like that, she told herself. Just trying not to get caught sneaking out to a party. Another alien-creature had appeared and her breath was tight; the people around her were staring in horror.

She jerked her head toward the exit.

"C'mon," she mouthed at them. On hands and knees they crawled over, slowly filing out. She could save three people. Maybe four. There were too many people, she couldn't get them out. She was just Darcy Lewis, a scared barely-college graduate, with four shots of espresso splashed across her front.

There were now several of the creatures, standing on a higher balcony. One of them reached into his belt and pulled out a device which started ticking. Darcy looked up and thought: oh, this was it, this was how it was all going to end.

The window on the higher level shattered and Darcy saw a blue blur catapult in. The aliens started firing, blue jets of light rushing towards him, and Darcy knew it was him and vaguely realized she was screaming his name. He tussled with one of the aliens and threw it over the balcony; the crowd parted and Darcy stepped forward, staring up at him.

"Everyone, clear out!" he called.

"Okay, move it people!" Darcy cried, flapping her arms towards the exit. To her surprise, people began to respond. She was saving them, making a difference, helping the world. She glanced up to see if he had noticed, only to be blinded by another flash of blue: the grenade-weapon had gone off, sending her Steve flying out the window. She heard a crash outside.

She followed the rest of the civilians out, pushing past them, taking the stairs two, three at a time. She had just seen him fall all those stories, crashing into something that she heard shatter.

"Steve!" she called. "Steve!"

He was standing, upright, looking battered and demoralized by the side of the car he had just landed on.

"Miss, miss," a policeman insisted, pushing Darcy away from him and the battle zone. A fireman directed her towards the subway.

"Steve," she said, but he didn't hear. He looked in her direction, glancing at the hostages with eyes that couldn't see.


	14. A Trickster God

Darcy stood in front of the chair, refusing to sit down at the conference table. Her eyes were wide as Nick Fury addressed her. After such a long day, she wasn't even surprised anymore. She was in shock when SHIELD agents had found her in the subway as soon as the battle had ended, and instead of congratulating her their first response had been to capture her as a semi-unwilling prisoner. She had been all but arrested and dragged before the director.

"Would you care to explain what you are doing so far from your post in DC, Miss Lewis," he asked, his voice more a snarky comment than a question.

"I—uhm," she stuttered. He looked exhausted, staring down at the table and rubbing his temples with his fingers.

After a moment of silence, as though collecting his thoughts of his strength, he stared up at her.

"Some people think that serving the country means being a hero," Fury continued. "But in my experience, being a hero is a selfish thing and that's just serving you. Am I understood?"

"Yes sir," Darcy squeaked out. "No more hero stuff, never again."

He smiled tiredly at her.

"I'll find you someone to report to," he added. A new Lemon? Darcy made a face. Those were some shoes to fill, some very shiny, very expensive shoes.

"What about Coulson?" Darcy offered. She wanted to tell him all about the captain, just the good parts. He would probably swoon.

But Director Fury's face darkened.

"Agent Coulson didn't make it," he said.

"What?" Darcy squeaked out. She was unable to process the concept Fury was introducing, though, as she heard the sliding doors open behind them.

"Darcy!" a booming voice called, and she turned to see Thor striding into the room, all battered and bloody but grinning like an idiot. She impatiently wiped her eyes. Why was she crying? She had never really liked Couslon anyway.

"Of course, he was an idiot," she muttered. Of all people, Coulson would play hero. She sniffled back her tears. She had to keep it together.

"Is Jane with you?" Thor asked, grabbing her shoulder and shaking her in a sort of weird warrior hug.

"Uhm, no," Darcy said, recovering a bit from seeing a friendly, familiar smile. At her news, though, his face fell a bit. "Sorry, dude," she added.

"Ah, well," he allowed. "At least she is safe."

"Who's this?" More people were filing into the room. She recognized some of them from the files, others from the news. It was Tony Stark, the famous Iron Man, that had spoken.

"This is my friend, Darcy," Thor said, thumping her on the back so hard she squeaked out a cough. He looked like a child on Christmas morning.

"Yeah, hi," Darcy said, trying not to wonder why one of the men was completely shirtless and his pants were ripped.

"Nice to meet you," the redheaded woman said, extending her hand. "I'm Natasha."

She shook the woman's hand, trying not to stare at the rivulets of blood streaming down her face.

"I know, I look like hell," Natasha said with a weary laugh, her voice dry.

"Don't listen to her, she always looks like this," a man interrupted, winking at Darcy. "Clint, by the way."

She wasn't sure how to respond so she offered a polite laugh, which seemed to placate both Clint and Natasha — although she was pretty sure that Clint was going to pay for his comment in a not-so-subtle way later. The two joined the rest of the team around the conference table, taking their seats across from Fury. Darcy glanced around and suddenly realized just how out of place she was. She chewed her lip a bit and wondered what would become of her. She didn't want to roam the halls of SHIELD alone. She wanted to stay. But they were all The Avengers, all superheroes, and she was just Darcy Lewis. She hurried to leave, to escape before her out-of-place-ness would become tangible.

In her need to escape, she walked head-on into Captain America, knocking her head into the breastplate of his armor.

"Darcy?" he asked, looking down at her in surprise. She could tell he was shocked to see her by the way he used her first name and by the way he was speaking to her in a civil tone.

"Watch it, Captain Clumsy," she replied quietly, rubbing her head.

He stared at her, his eyes wide.

"Were you here for—?"

"I'm glad you're alright," she said at the same time.

She could almost hear every chair at the table turn to face them. She could have sworn she also heard Tony Stark wolf whistle, but it was quiet and under his breath so she couldn't be sure.

"Well," he said, still staring at her. "I have to…" He pointed with his thumb at the meeting waiting for him like he was trying to hitchhike away from their awkward conversation.

"Of course," she said, but neither of them moved. "Congratulations… on saving the world," she added. She could hear Thor chuckle at her awkwardness from the table and tried to ignore it; from the heat on her face is was obvious that she was only all-too aware of their audience.

"Thank you," Steve replied, his brow puckering again. He never knew just how to deal with Darcy. He turned to leave.

"Tally-ho," she muttered, walking out into the hallway.

***

She lingered right outside the door, pacing past the meeting room. All alone, she felt that empty feeling in her chest, like she was just a ribcage filled with air.

"We've got Loki in holding cell five," she heard a voice say from inside. She looked up, curious.

"So who's this Loki?" she asked one of the many guards stationed outside. The agents around her were wearing swat-style face masks and helmets; after such a trying day, she desperately wanted to have a simple, face-to-face conversation with someone she could really talk to.

No one answered, but one of them reached forward to close the doors with his key-card.

"Isn't he, like, Thor's brother or something?" Darcy asked, remembering her crash course in Norse mythology from Selvig.

Still no one answered. She sighed to herself, exaggerating the noise for the benefit of the guards.

"Fiiiine," she said, drawing out the word like a sulky teenager. She paced a little bit more, feeling so alone. The cold feeling creeping through the center of her ribcage made her fingers twitch, like she was shivering, even though it was perfectly warm. She just needed to talk to someone. Could she call Limmond? A part of her longed desperately for a face-to-face interaction, one where she could look into someone else's eyes and be told that everything was alright. Thor would do that – but he was in a meeting. Perhaps his brother would be the same? She mulled over the idea, and, as always, her impulsive curiosity took the reins.

"Agent, I need to talk to Loki," she said in her best official voice, forcing her face right up against the helmet of one of the agents. He flinched a bit.

"You don't have the proper security clearance."

Darcy thought for a second, then put on an angry voice, "Of course I do! I'm friends with Captain America! Didn't you just see us in there? I'm basically an Avenger!"

She wasn't sure if being "an Avenger" was a thing, or it was a member of The Avengers, but she went with it, scowling her most fearsome scowl. The agent traded looks with his partner, who shrugged.

"Follow me."

Darcy followed, trying not to smile. It was nice getting her way.

***

They led her into a dark room and flipped the lights on illuminating a long pane of thick glass dividing the room. She didn't have a chance to ask questions; they promptly closed the door behind her. She glanced around, trying not to stare at the lone figure in the cell. He stood on her entrance and surveyed her from beneath greasy dark locks.

"You must be Darcy," he said, his voice harsh. Had one of the agents muttered her name?

"Yep," she replied, shoving her hands into her pockets. "You must be Thor's brother."

"Guilty," he replied, his face alighting in a foxlike smile. "Do you know him?" he asked, pacing around the cell.

"We've met. He's sort of dating my boss."

"Ah," Loki replied, his eyes narrowing. "Yes, he did mention her. The earth woman that... changed him so."

"Yeah, I just call her Jane," Darcy said, giving Loki a weird look.

"Jane." He seemed to taste the name.

For a moment they stood in silence.

"So, have you come to gloat?" he asked.

"Gloat?" she repeated. "Nah, I just wanted to meet you. You always sounded pretty cool, playing tricks of people and shi— stuff."

He gave her a measuring look at the way she stuttered and checked herself and she suddenly felt naked, felt like this was a bad idea.

"But, I guess I can go," she said, taking a few steps back.

"No," he said, his voice mocking. "Stay. I would love to meet yet another human. Your race so perfectly epitomizes failure, I must admit that it is fascinating."

"Excuse me?" she asked, trying to sound forceful. Instead, she sounded as scared as she felt.

"Why else are you not with the team? Poor Darcy," he spat out, his voice growing louder, "always alone. Always forcing everyone else away. Tell me, what did you do this time to deserve your solitude?"

"I—"

"I may be imprisoned, I may be the one in this glass cage, but I pity you." He was practically roaring now, throwing the words at her like daggers. "Your fate is much worse, always on the outside, always trying and failing to be accepted. Tell me, Darcy, what did you do this time?" He spat the words out at her, and his repeated question was a barb catching her like a fishing hook, digging under her skin and tethering her.

"But—"

"But what?" he asked. "What pathetic excuse do you have this time? What words could you possibly say to fix the fact that you will never be good enough?"

She felt herself blanch at those last words and he grinned only further.

"Oh yes, you will never be good enough," he replied, grinning maliciously. "You are nothing more than a fool, a child struggling to pretend that she is a hero."

"I'm not a child!" she found herself saying, the repeated words burning her mouth.

"You've heard that before," Loki said, slinking around his cage like a large cat eying a caged bird. "He's told you that, hasn't he?"

"You can't know that," Darcy breathed. And, of course, he couldn't, but it didn't matter. He was reading her like a book and she just felt the panic setting in; her lungs churned, fighting to find traction on the air. She felt lightheaded. Her hands were shaking.

"And yet you love him?" Loki guessed, pressing both hands into the glass. His face curled into a snarl. "You love a man who will never see you as anything more than an insolent child, an immature failure of a girl that will never amount to anything."

Darcy couldn't respond; she could hardly breathe. She heard her ragged breath and the snarling figure of Loki seemed to swim before her. Hot tears poured down her face. He was right. She loved him, and he would never love her back. It was sad, so sad that she could do nothing but cry.

"And look at you," Loki purred, gesturing at her body. She looked up in shock with a loud sniffle. "How could he, Darcy?" he asked, his voice suddenly tender. "It is such a shame that you cannot see just how different you are. Just how much you will… never be good enough."

She felt a fresh sob tear through her body, and no matter how she hugged her ribcage she couldn't stop the tremors.

"Loki!" she heard a voice roar. She couldn't look up, but she didn't want anyone to be there. She wanted to be alone, because he was right. She would always be alone. She would never be good enough.

She felt strong hands at her shoulders and found herself propped up. From her new vantage point she could see Thor, raising his hammer to Loki's face, all but roaring at his younger brother in unchecked rage. Thor had one hand on Loki's shoulder — apparently he had opened the cell to rip his brother out. She wanted to say something, to stop him. Loki didn't deserve to be punished; he was just right. He was just saying all the things that everyone else had thought about her but had been too cowardly to say.

Thor shoved Loki back into his cell and Darcy could see that he had just hammered something metal onto Loki's face. He was now bound and gagged, staring sullenly through his glass prison's walls at his latest victim.

The door to the room flew open again, and Darcy was humiliated to see a familiar star-spangled figure.

"Darcy?" he asked, running towards her. She wasn't sure who was holding her up; she glanced back to see Natasha, supporting her shoulders with surprisingly strong hands.

"I'm fine," she tried to say, but a sob stole her words. But she wasn't. She just wanted him to say that Loki was wrong, that the little voice inside her head was wrong, and that she wasn't all alone. But Steve was frozen in horror at whatever he saw in her face, and Darcy could feel Natasha leading her away.

***

Nick Fury paused at the captain's room, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed.

"Sir?" Steve asked, turning to see the imposing figure.

"You may want to review this surveillance footage, Captain," Fury replied, tossing the disks at him. They were marked from prisoner containment, holding cell five and time stamped to earlier that day.

Steve stared down at his desk and his hands there. He had balled them up into fists and stared at the white lines formed by his force.

"You know," Fury continued, "Lemon did suggest that Miss Lewis join SHIELD. Do you know why?"

Steve was silent, watching the small tremors shaking his hands.

"He thought you two worked well together." Fury gave him a meaningful look and then walked away. "She's in the Level Five recovery room," he added. "Just in case you'd like to… talk to her."


	15. Making Lemonade

Steve shut the video off halfway through. It was too painful to watch, and he suddenly realized that he had somewhere else to be.

He raced up to Level Five, sprinting up the stairs. Elevators were too slow. The sliding automatic doors, they too were too slow and he wrenched them open with a loud screeching noise of mechanics and metal. At the noise, Darcy looked up, and Steve suddenly felt calmer. Her eyes were dry; she was fiddling with her hair but looked more bored than upset. From the pile of tissues on the bed he had assumed she had gotten all of her tears out of her system. The idea of it hurt him, but then he remembered why he had come running. He remembered what Loki had accused her of and what he had come to realize about himself.

Steve Rogers didn't know much about kissing but at that moment all he knew was that he desperately wanted to kiss Darcy Lewis. He ran at her so fast that everything was a blur, and was terrified at how quickly he closed the distance between them. She was there, closer than he imagined, so much that he was catching only small segments of her face that filled his entire frame of vision: the curve of her cheekbones, the full blush of her lips, the fluttering shadow left by her eyelashes. She stared up at him, frozen, as though frightened to scare him away. He told himself not to think about it and blindly pushed his lips into hers, surprised by how soft they were and by the strangeness of things he hadn't thought of, from the vaguely strawberry taste of her lips to the roughness he could feel from where she had gnawed on the inside of her cheek when she was nervous.

He didn't want to pull away but he felt her whole body shudder and a voice in his mind told him to stop. His lips lingered on her lower lip, hesitant to pull away. Finally, his carefully cultivated self-control won out and he separated himself from her. He was almost embarrassed to look up, to see how she would respond.

"Wow," she said faintly.

"Hi," he responded, equally breathless.

He looked down at her and she up at him. His face was open, alight, the scowl gone as he stared down at her. She felt her whole face fill with warmth, glancing along the curve of her nose and her cheeks, emanating from the tingling feeling on her lips. Staring up into those blue eyes she forgot about her million-hour long day, she couldn't remember why they had been angry at each other, and try as she might she couldn't remember what "no" sounded like coming from his lips. Her eyes traced down the arc of his nose, wondering how many times it had been broken, her mind fuzzing into a million senseless trains of thoughts that disappeared as lightning fast as they appeared.

After such a trying day, her brain gave up and she felt her instincts taking over. Looking at his lips was dangerous; they were slightly parted and she was so close she could feel his warm breath brushing her forehead. She dared a glance back up at his eyes; they were wide, surprised, innocent, but there was something tender in them that answered her every question in the affirmative. She didn't worry about what could happen, what rejection she risked because his eyes were already saying yes. Instead, she just threw herself back at him, greedily reaching with her hands at the nape of his neck so they buried themselves in the his soft shorn hair.

She just wanted to be as close to him as possible, and touching wasn't enough. She wanted every part of them to be together, intertwined, complimenting each other's curves. She had wanted this from the first day she had seen him in the kitchen and from the first time he had held a door open for her and from the first time he laughed awkwardly at a pop culture reference he didn't get.

Belatedly, she realized that his hands were frozen in the air, hovering above her shoulders. As she pressed her lips harder into his, she disentangled her hands from his hair and guided his hands to her waist.

"There's no chaperone here, Cap," she breathed into his ear, moving to kiss his neck. He pulled away, staring at her with her favorite look: his eyebrows quirked in confusion, his lips — now smeared somewhat haphazardly with her chapstick — parted.

"You want me to…?" he began, breaking off. He couldn't think of words appropriate to use. Darcy laughed quietly and leaned back towards him.

"What do you want to do?" she asked, her lips trailing along his neck.

A thrill made the entire length of Steve's spine tingle, and she seemed to respond, feeling him tremble underneath her fingers as she ran her hands down his back, digging into the firm muscles there, exploring every arc of every muscle.

He pulled back, sharply.

"I — uhm —"

"Oh," Darcy replied, suddenly embarrassed as well, taking a full step back. "If you're not cool with—"

"No — I just—" he stuttered. "It's—"

She looked at him, the self-consciousness gone once more, a cat-like glance, and then reached down with both hands, sliding them into the back pockets of his pants.

"Does this make you uncomfortable, Captain America?" she purred, tightening her grip.

As she pressed herself towards him, she could tell that "uncomfortable" was not the word that he would use.

His entire face reddened and he pulled away, using both hands to slide her hands out of his pockets.

"I—I'm so—I didn't—" He sounded close to tears he was so humiliated.

"You think that I don't want that," Darcy asked archly, raising her eyebrows while glancing down suggestively at a new bulge in his clothing.

"Of course I would never ask you to —"

"Oh, I was offering," Darcy specified.

He took a full two steps backwards.

"Ma— Darcy—" he stuttered. "I don't think I understand…"

She huffed out a breath of air, a gigantic sigh, the concept of his innocence dawning on her.

"Just kiss me, Captain America," she ordered.

"What?"

"Kiss me," she repeated, softer, taking a small step towards him. He gingerly responded, mirroring her movements without realizing it. Then he bent forward, pressing his lips down towards her. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on how it felt kissing her, but there were so many other things that claimed his attention, like the soft feeling of her pressing up against him and her fingers snaking around his back, drawing swirls that tickled and seemed to leaving burning traces where she touched. She tried to be patient with him, fighting the urge to blindly press herself against him until she couldn't tell where her body stopped and his started. But then again, she was only human.

"Steve," she said, breathing hard as they parted.

"Yeah?" he asked, gingerly placing his hands on her shoulders.

"I want you so bad," she breathed, caressing his ear with her lips.

"I—uhm—I'm right here," he replied, sounding confused by her passionate request.

"I can feel that," she replied, and he could tell from her whisper that she was smiling; from her tone he realized that she was talking about something else entirely.

"Sorry." He apologized before he realized it.

"No," she continued, running a hand down the center of his ribcage, her fingers tracing the curve of each muscle. "I want you."

"Darcy," he breathed, unable to say anything but her name, his tongue tripping over the word. "Darcy, Darcy…"

She seemed to take this as consent and began ripping at his buttons, pushing the ridiculous plaid shirt off. Her fingers fumbled a bit with his belt and he didn't seem aware of what she was doing, his lips leaving hot kisses along her hairline, his jaw trembling. But when her impatient fingers poked under the waistband of his pants to tug at his undershirt he resisted, pulling back.

"Darcy—"

"Captain," she replied, mischievous, her eyes alight.

"My mother raised me to be a good—" his voice trembled on the word; she was back to kissing his neck, her tongue now lingering along with her lips "—good, well-behaved…"

"Don't think of your mother now, Steve," she whispered, her voice tinged acerbically in that way he loved. Darcy Lewis, whose tongue was amazing for more than one reason, her mind as beautiful as her perfect, perfect body, a perfect body that was now his, every arc and curve intimately pressed against him, only his, just his.

Which was why he had to do the right thing.

"Darcy," he continued, pulling back and cradling her jaw in his hands. He took a moment, closing his eyes to regroup his scattered thoughts. "Do you want to know why I kept calling you 'ma'am' when we first met?"

She made a face, her lips pouting: "Because you had never spoken to another woman before?" This was not going in the direction she wanted; namely, he was not bearing her off to his bed.

"No," he said, "because I respected you. Because from the moment I saw your eyes—" he broke off to kiss her temple "— and your nose—" he brushed his lips along the tip of her nose "— and your lips—" he lingered there longer, inhaling into the kiss and stealing her breath "— I knew that no one could ever be as perfect as you."

She stared at him, thoroughly breathless.

"I think I love you, Darcy Lewis," he continued, his voice breaking, and his eyes seemed to be tearing up even though a small voice told Darcy that wasn't possible.

She stared back at him. This was insane. They had never been on one date, they had never even slept together, and he was declaring his love for her, using those three words that had never been spoken to her in that order by any man, regardless of what she did or how long they dated. And he was him — Captain America, with blue eyes that seemed too bright to be real, who saved the world and had an ass that seemed to be carved out of marble. He loved her. He wasn't just saying it: he loved her.

"I love you too." She didn't realize the words were out of her mouth. They tumbled out of her lips while she stared back at him. All of her was numb.

He fixed that quickly by drawing her into a kiss, bending her back in a dip, and she enjoyed the strong feeling of his hands bearing into the small of her back and cradling her shoulders. She was off balance, completely in his arms, every cell in her body screaming out to be his, to be loved by him.

"Miss Lewis," he continued. "Ma'am," his voice broke on the word, his face cracking into a smile, the corner of his eyes crinkling, "may I take you dancing sometime?"

She slid an arm over his shoulder, laughing, and pulled his hand, intertwining their fingers.

"Weren't we dancing already?" she asked.

-THE END-


End file.
